Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Wrapping up--

Let's see if we're on the same page as far as assignments go. Remember: missing 0-3 gives you an A, 4-6 a B, 7 or more an F.

You should have written 39 prompt reactions, three per week, weeks 1-13. How many have you written___37_______?

You should have written 16 themes (2 for week 14)(count all journal entries as a single theme). How many have you written____17______?

And you should have written one writer's autobiography (in three parts) as oneself as a writer back in week one. How many did you write______3____?

When you think you are done, but not before, fill out above what you HAVE done (not what you plan to do) and email it back to me.

week 15

Choice #4 Week 15.
Write about yourself as a writer--hopes and dreams, strengths and weaknesses, ambitions and failures; reactions to the semester, what changed for better or worse in your writing; course experiences, problems, positives.




What is a writer? 
I like to think that a writer isn't just a profession or a noun or even an adjective. It's a personality. It's a piece of who you are. It's a passion. 
Writing is so infinite. There are a million different possibilities. Every story opens doors; every door opens to another. Writing can never end. 
Myself as a writer... It's a funny thing to ponder. I have the soul of a writer; the soul of an artist who wants to make a mark on the world. Although I enjoy writing and consider myself a bit talented - I'm unpublished. 
Even though I'm a dreamer and an optimist, I'm also a realist. If I'm not officially published, I don't know if I can call myself a writer. Maybe I could say I'm an aspiring writer. Maybe I could say I enjoy to write. 
Career-wise, being a writer is something I've wanted to do for the entirety of my existence. I had dreams of best sellers and book signing. I wanted to be a famous author with an array of books for readers to choose from. 
But as an adult, I'm a realist. I would love all of the things I just said - but let's face it, the chances of that happening are pretty low. I'd like to be a photojournalist and incorporate both of my biggest passions into one big, heap. At the same time, I strive at creative fiction writing. This course has taught me more about non fiction then I ever knew before. I used to avoid non-fiction writing because I thought that writing was an escape. And non-fiction would ruin that. Why escape and go to something that's... real?
But after spending this semester inside my own head, racking my thoughts around and composing pieces, pieces that I had lived or felt, it made me think differently about non-fiction. You can explore things that are real and still have that sense of fantasy. This course helped me learn things about my own writing ability that I didn't know I had. It truly put a lot of things to the test. 
I can admit that I've been told before by multiple people that I have a knack for writing. I think it's very important to recognize your talents in life but remain humble. At the same time, writing is still difficult for me at times. Sometimes, it's no effort at all. But other times, I'm struggling and fighting to get the words out. Sometimes I experience writer's block that is so severe I feel trapped. I think writer's block is an awful feeling. Sometimes I work as hard as I can on pieces and I feel literally, physically drained. I take writing too seriously from time to time. 
This course has helped me with one very important thing that I needed - feedback. I needed some helpful advice with my writing. Sometimes I use too many adjectives. Sometimes I work so hard on the beginning of the piece that by the ending, I just want to be done with it so I finish on an unsatisfying note. 
My strengths are my passion for writing. I'm the sort of person that when I care about something, I care about it with everything I have. That's how I am with writing. When I get positive feedback on my writing, it's a feeling that sends me souring. When it's not-so-positive feedback (someone told me once it sounded like a romance novel... yuck), I work on fixing it pronto. Writing is something that I need. I need that sort of expression; I need that feeling of freedom. I've always thought that the human mind was both the most dangerous and the safest place. Its secrets are locked away forever. But there also can be plenty of madness locked inside. As far as writers go, I think they're a little more crazy then the normal human mind. They can create their own world in their mind, and I can bet they get lost. I know I get lost from time to time in the fantasies of my own mind. 
As far as weaknesses go, I think too much. Sometimes I try too hard. My simplest pieces can tend to be my best ones. I put too much thought into things sometimes; I don't trust myself enough. This course made me challenge myself to really fight for words and think outside the box - and it's exactly what I needed. 
I think I'll always be that little girl who wants to be a writer. For a while I strayed from the dream, but when I got back into it, it really started clicking. It makes me happy. I can't ignore how happy it makes me, and I can't ignore a talent that I have. I have a long ways to go before I'm anywhere near a professional writer, but it's a journey I'm willing to take. Best sellers? Maybe not. But possibly. 
For now, classes like this are exactly what I need. This class challenged me and made me become very serious about my writing. I can admit that there are times when I can be cocky about it. I wrote a 9 page paper in 2 hours the other day, and got a 95 on it. Sometimes I when I do that, I feel a little over confident. But as an instructor, your honest critiques and thoughts really help bringing me back down. I'm definitely not a cocky person; I'm as honest and humble as they come. But being reminded that I'm still working on being a writer is something I need from time to time. 
As a writer, I will always be looking for more things to write about. When I write, I'm happier. When I write, I'm stronger. I can't explain it; maybe I shouldn't. Maybe it's something that even words can't explain. 
But for now, I'll continue to write. I'll continue to work on this skill. 
I'm looking forward to 262 :) 

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Week 14 theme 2

The fireworks light up the river in a thousand different ways. The 'ooohs' and 'ahhhs' of the crowd sounded like whispers next to the crack of the firework.
It was a calm, still August night. You know when you get that happy-medium sometimes in August? Not quite dog days and not quite coat days? Today was one of those days. Where the sun shined just right all day, and the night sky felt just right too.
The waterfront walkway was full of people from all over. Up on top of the hill, there was a live band playing. They stood in a stage that was nestled on the greenest grass. Waves of the river made light noises in the distance.
You could hear all this in between firework pops.
Couples were sitting with their legs intertwined; children were twirling sparklers in the sky; older people were chattering about the beauty of the fireworks with a 'back in my day' tone.
The place was alive. More alive than it is all year. For some reason, this time in August, it seems like the life comes out from hiding.
Why is it that summer creates such a happier human being?
Maybe it's all the lake water. Maybe all that sun makes them a little mad. Perhaps it's all the kegs, spiked watermelons and fruity cocktail drinks.
No, that's not it. Too simple.
It's the time of the year that defines the term 'carefree'.
As the famous song says, 'The things we did last summer, I'll remember, all winter long'. 
No one sings a song about thinking about the cold winter all year long.
As the fireworks begin booming a little faster, the crowd starts cheering. It is clearly almost time for the finale of the fireworks show.
The sky lit up the faces of the onlookers, and the sight made them all smile. Once it was all over, people left, arms around each other, hands interlocked. Skipping, walking, running... The happy people dispersed and went their separate ways, talking about how beautiful the show was. The band packed up for the night. The booths that crowded the entire street just earlier that day were all gone now; the beer tent was taken down.
Suddenly but surely, a town that was so full of life just hours ago, was back to its old peace and quiet. There were no more fireworks reflecting off the river. The band on the grass was long gone. The chit-chatter had ended. The town carnival was all towed away, along with the Zipper, the Scrambler, the Ferris Wheel and the Funhouse.
Everything disappeared so fast.
Perhaps everyone realizes that fall is right around the corner.
It's a shame how things don't last.

Monday, December 12, 2011

Week Fourteen theme 1

She always came into the grocery store and seemed so frazzled. She had a kid on her hip and another in the cart. She wore so much make-up, even though she was naturally pretty enough without it.
Was it judgmental to say that she was a single mom? She never came in with a man. Always just the children.
She bought fairly normal things. You can tell a lot about a person judging by what they buy at the grocery store; this is something you learn after bagging groceries for two and a half years.
She would collect her bags and go to leave. She seemed to always be in a hurry and she only muttered a 'have a nice day'.
It's hard not to wonder what her life must be like. Maybe she has to chase after both of her small sons all day. Maybe she gets sad. Does she sometimes wish she would've waited to have children?
People say that having kids at a young age will rob you of your picture. While bringing in the shopping carts, the young mother was cleaning off the face of her little boy and talking to him in baby talk. A bright smile was on her face, and there was a sweet ring in her voice.
The ring that, for some unknown reason, only mothers have.
How can so much love rob her of her future?

***
Red blotches on his face, wrinkles and balding hair showed that he was far too old to be working on his feet. He breathed in heavy wheezes, and he was a little round around the middle. He didn't have a wedding ring on.
His current costumers were two young teenagers wearing jeans that were so tight they would probably lower their sperm count, t-shirts with ignorant sayings on them and big, fat skater shoes.
The man talked to them in a very quiet voice. He kept his eyes low and didn't look them in the face. The Hannaford name tag on his red polo shirt read 'Toby, at your service for 12 years'.
"Wait, is that soda $2.99?" One of the punks asked.
Toby pushed his glasses up his nose and answered softly, "Yes, that is the price of it."
"Seriously?!" The kid said dramatically, "I don't want it anymore. Take it off."
Toby nodded and cancelled out the item. He continued ringing in their things.
It was clear that Toby was older, and he worked at a slower pace. One of the punks was tapping his stupid foot impatiently.
"Can you hurry it up? We've got places to be." The other punk said without a touch of politeness in his voice.
Toby started to sweat; you could see it on his shiny forehead. He nodded quickly and started ringing in their items faster.
One of the kids nudged the other and they shared a cruel smile, "Twelve years working in this dump and you still can't ring groceries in fast enough?"
Toby didn't say anything. He just continued to do his job. His eyes were full of an emotion that looked like hurt.
The two punks left. Toby stood motionless as they walked away without saying thank you.
It seems like people in this world assume that every store clerk worker is an idiot without a work ethic. Why does it matter where he works? Maybe he enjoys it. Maybe this is what he likes to do.
Does it matter if he went to college or not? Does it matter if he isn't making triple digits a year?
Why do people go out of their way to be so cruel?

65. In the drawer is a box made of carved and joined bits of driftwood, which holds objects meaningless to anyone else but sacred, precious, unforgettable to you..

Walking along the sandy beach with my friends, I sort of feel at peace with the world. Yeah, when I return to Old Town on Sunday I have a lot of work to do and I'll have things to worry about. 
But now, I'm with my friends, and all seems well. 
The sky is bluer then I have ever seen it, and the ocean stretches on before us. It touches the horizon and creates a straight line of blue. The sun creates a sparkling sight as far as the eye can sea. 
I watch the waves as they move slowly and melodically in and out. The breeze swept my hair over my shoulders.  
Felicia, Laura, Gilman and I were walking slowly down the sandy beach, our shoes in a pile by the rocks just off shore. We were walking in silence; not a heavy silence or a burdening silence, but an enjoyable silence. A pleasant silence. A peaceful silence that talking would ruin. 
I've always thought that friends who were good enough friends didn't need to talk all the time. 
I was wearing my favorite white Irish knit sweater as a coat. It had a sash to tie around the waist and and wooden buttons.  Accompanied with my favorite colorful earrings, flowered sunglasses, bright blue shirt, pink scarf and gray skinny jeans and gray boots, I thought this was the perfect outfit for a day out on the town. 
"It's crazy that this is your backyard," I said to Laura. We were in Biddeford at Laura's school, the University of New England. In the back of the school was this beautiful sandy beach that we were strolling on. 
"Believe it or not, this is the first time I've been out here this year," Laura replied as her, Felicia and I sat down in the sand, "I'm always so busy I forget it's here sometimes." 
I pushed my sunglasses over my eyes and felt for my camera next me, "If this were in my backyard, I'd be here all the time."  
Further away on the beach was a long stone wall. There were many people sitting on the stone wall with books. Some of them were writing, some of them reading. I remember being young and reading while sitting on rocks at that craggy old by my grandparents lived on. 
This beach was much different. 
There were expensive beach houses as far as the eye could see. All of them had wrap around porches, whiter then white shutters and gardeners in the front yard. 
In the outfit I primarily bought at Goodwill, I felt slightly out of place. 
Earlier that day, we met Laura's room mates on campus. The four of them lived in an on-campus suite. All three of them came from money and they were all flat landers. None of them were born in Maine. They did nothing but complain about Maine and how much they hated it. 
The Maine they lived in was definitely not the real Maine. This was the 'other' Maine. The Maine you see on postcards. 
Their condescending nature and attitude is what encouraged me to suggest this walk on the beach. I already couldn't stand them. 
"It's so beautiful." I said and started snapping pictures. 
While Gilman wasn't paying attention, I snapped some pictures of him. He was walking along the beach looking for shells. I collected sea glass and seashells, so I've been keeping my eye out as well. I took a picture of a shell that was sitting in the sand next to us. 
We started to make small talk. Gilman was still walking around the beach. He'd bend down occasionally to pick up something. Laura, Felicia and I laughed together as we sat in the sand. 
"We could take a walk around downtown Biddeford," Laura started as she took a stick and started writing her name in the sand, "I'd like to see if I could show you guys the old theater. The one I took a class in last semester." 
"That actually would be really cool." Felicia agreed, "I'm pretty much up for anything." 
"We could get breakfast at the dining hall," Laura continued, "I would have to use up all my guest swipes but that's not a huge deal." 
The emptiness in my stomach agreed with that statement, "Breakfast sounds wonderful." 
Felicia and Laura laughed. As my father told me once, "Holliann, you have the same problem as I do. We both truly love to eat." 
Out of all my friends, I was the one who was always concerned when dinner was, I always had snacks in my purse, and I have never and will never be the type who could just 'skip breakfast'. 
"And Tom's soccer game is later. And after that I was thinking we could go to the Maine Mall." Laura went on. 
"We have a full day, huh?" Felicia said. 
Laura smiled, "Well, there are a lot of cool things I'd like you guys to see. And we really only have today." 
We all stood up from the sand and decided to take a walk along the rock wall. We motioned for Gilman to join us. 
"Here," Gilman said once he got to us, "Some sea glass. I know you collect it." 
He held his hand out to me and gave me a handful of green, blue, brown and clear sea glass. 
I thanked him and put the sea glass in my camera bag with some of the other shells and things I had found. 
We walked along the rock wall in a line. I was snapping pictures and saying 'hello' to people who we came across. We walked past some people who were being talked to by a man who appeared to be a teacher. 
We got to an interesting rock formation. The rock wall went out into the water and seemed to separate the ocean into two pieces. 
"This is really cool," I said and pointed at some graffiti on the rock formation. 
In big green letters painted on the rocks it read, 

We can live this way. 

I didn't know what the artist was referring to. Hear on the ocean? Hear under the sun and on the sand? Here on this rock wall, watching the waves move in and out and listening to them crash? 
The ocean has always fascinated humans. Why is that? I can think of many reasons why. 
It's endless, it's beautiful, it's dangerous, it's mysterious. But at all the same time, it's peaceful. It's unchanging. It's vast. With an ever changing world and lives that are a little different every day, something that is constant is a comfort. 
Laura walked up to me with pieces of smooth and soft driftwood in her hands. 
"Here," Laura said and handed it to me, "I have too much driftwood already. You can have these pieces." 
"Well, thanks," I said happily and put the driftwood in my camera case with the other things. 
For a long time we meandered around that beach and talked for what seemed like hours. 


Some months later, I was cleaning my room. With a small room and enough stuff to fill a big room, I was always tripping over ridiculous amounts of stuff. 
I was throwing some of my dirty clothes into my hamper when I knocked over a basket that sat atop of my purple book case. 
I cried out a curse word and bent down to pick up the contents of the basket. 
Seashells, sea glass, and driftwood scattered all over my carpeted floor. I started quickly picking them up; I was in a bit of hurry. 
But something slowed me down. As I held each item in my hand, I realized that I had had some of these shells for years. Some of them were ones that I had collected on that bay in Robinson. One of them had a painted tree on it that I had purchased at a gift shop in Eastport after the first time I went whale watching. 
A handful of sea glass sat in my hand and I wondered how many of these pieces were found on that beach in Biddeford. 
Each of these things had floated in that vast ocean, and somehow it ended up here, in my messy bedroom, sitting in my hands. How many places had these seen? 
How many memories had been created finding these pieces that I have collected for years?
I placed all of the items back in my blue basket. I set the basket back at its spot on top of the purple book case. 
I collected my things and went to leave the still messy room. Before I turned out my light, I looked back at that basket and had a little thought. 
How often do we forget the little things? 
And why do they seem to hold the biggest space in our hearts?

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Week 13 Theme

I bounced and pranced all the way to the entrance, my stressed-out mother holding my hand.
"Oh, Mommy! I'm so excited for this! Do you suppose there are sharks in there?"
"Well, Holliann, it is an aquarium." Mom said as we walked into the entrance of the Boston Aquarium.
Inside, I was surrounded by colors, sounds and exciting things to look at. I had never been to an aquarium before! In the middle of the room was a huge tank that had a stair case wrapped around it. Inside of it was bright blue, and yet beautifully clear water. Living in that water were the most colorful fish I had ever seen!
I pointed and cried, "Mommy, look!"
She quickly turned to me and shushed me. My dad strolled in behind us with Donny in a stroller and Cindy on his arm. Flustered after the day of travel we've had, (I'm sure 6 hours in the car with us wasn't exactly a relaxing ride) she approached the desk and paid for our tickets.
Once we were on the other side of the desk, I ran straight to that giant tank.
I pressed my little hands against the glass and smiled.
"This is pretty cool, huh, Holl?" Dad asked as he stood next to me.
"So pretty!" I cried. Because of my speech impediment, not everything that came out of my mouth was exactly audible. But I was so excited that I didn't care.
"This is so cool!" My sister said and came up on the other side of me, "This is the sort of stuff I want to do when I become a marine biologist."
As a family, we started looking around the exhibits that the aquarium had to offer. I cringed at the sight of an octopus sticking to the side of it's tank; Cindy got overly excited at the dolphin tank; Donny giggled as the penguins as they waddled around their habitat.
At one point in time, I had my face pressed against the glass of a tank. I didn't know exactly what animal was in said tank.
Nothing was appearing in the tank. I was waiting and waiting for something great to appear. Maybe there was a whale in this tank!
Just like that, a giant shark appeared in front of my face.
I shrieked and shot back from the glass.
It's not like he could hurt me from where he was, but I still didn't want my face so close to him! He had big, ugly sharp teeth. I watched as his gills moved in and out; his small eyes watched me.
At first, he scared me. But now I didn't really mind looking at him. He was nothing but a big fish. He was on the other side of this tank. I had nothing to be afraid of!
I smiled at him, and for a second it looked like he smiled back at me.
I heard Mommy call my name. I waved at Mr. Shark and moved on.
Once you got to the top of the very tall staircase that was around the giant tank, you could look down and see a tank full of big sea turtles. There were bright colors of blue everywhere, and this tank was full of every color flower you could ever imagine.
Mom and Dad chased Cindy and I around as we looked at every single thing we could look at. We were both fascinated by everything around us.
Once they rallied up their two girls, my parents took us to a sea lion show.
It was a very crowded room, and we got there a little late so we sat very high up on the stands. There was a pretty blonde lady in a wet suit stood near a pool with a big, shiny sea lion whose name was Guthrie.
At first, I thought he was a little scary looking. But, when I watched as he hopped through hoops and caught beach balls on his nose, I found that he was... cute. He had big brown eyes and whiskers like my dog's. He sorta barked like my dog did too.
"Okay, so now I have an idea." The blonde lady yelled to the audience and tossed Guthrie a fish, "I want to bring some kids down to ask Guthrie some questions. Who wants to ask him some questions?"
As if I had no control over it, my little arm shot up. I waved it around in the air, hoping that she called on me. I wanted so badly to go down and ask Guthrie a question. I tried to hold my arm higher then any of the other kids' arms.
"Little girl in the glasses," The blonde lady called and pointed my way. My eyes got huge, "Do you have a question?"
Because of my speech impediment, I didn't want to talk. I thought I'd sound funny in front of all these people. I shook my head.
The lady smiled, "Did you just want to come down and say hello to Guthrie?"
I nodded quickly. She told me to come on down, and without missing a beat I shot up and ran down to where she was.
Up close, Guthrie was bigger then I thought. But his eyes were still kind and brown. His body was big and he looked slimy. He smelt a little like fish.
"Now, what is your name, honey?" She asked me. She was much prettier up close.
Very quietly I answered, "Holli."
She smiled, "Everyone, this is my new friend Holli. She wants to meet Guthrie." The lady turned to the giant sea lion that stood next to her, "Guthrie, this is Holli."
Guthrie put out his flipper.
"Go ahead and shake his hand!" The woman encouraged.
Nervously, I put out my hand and shook his flipper. The crowd clapped.
"Now, Guthrie," The woman yelled, "Give her a kiss!"
It didn't really register, what she said... Not until I had the snout of a seal in my face.
First, he kissed my nose. I giggled at the prickle of his whiskers. Then, he kissed all over my face. It tickled and scratched; it felt so funny and weird. He breathed in hot puffs and he smelt even more of fish up close. His breathing fogged up my glasses. He was so much taller then me! The crowd was laughing and enjoying the show. The blonde lady was trying to get Guthrie to stop.
I was giggling and couldn't believe what was going on. I was being kissed over and over by a seal!

63. To see a world in a grain of sand. and a heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand and eternity in an hour

It's a night in early December, and the winter has been surprisingly mild. The sun has been out almost every day, and the temperature hasn't dropped too low. I'm snoozing on my parent's couch and I suddenly feel my mother shaking me. 
"You need to take Uncle Brian to the vet with Monty," She said as soon as my eyes were open. I must not have been a very attractive sight; I was drooling all over my face and my hair was sticking out in a million different directions. 
"Huh?" I muttered. 
"Monty's not doing well." She said, her brown eyes that look so much like mine soft, "The vet clinic is in Perry." 
I stretched my arms and looked around. The Christmas tree was up early this year, the sun was streaming in through the bay window behind the couch and there was a dog sleeping at my feet. It took me a moment to remember what Mom was talking about. 
Last night, my Uncle Brian was worried about Monty, his old black-and-white cat. He wasn't eating and he was limping. 
I sat up and shook off the slumber soreness, "Okay." 
I went in the bathroom to take a shower and found Monty laying on the bathroom floor and Mom said he hadn't moved in hours. He meowed as I walked past him. 
I knelt down and took a good look at poor old Monty. 
He had breathing problems, so as he breathed he let out little gasps and croaks. His green eyes watched me as I stroked his long black fur. I talked to him in a low voice, even though he was deaf and there was no way he could hear me, I liked to think that he could. 
After getting ready, Uncle Brian and I gathered up Monty and were on the road. 
The drive to the closest vet clinic was about an hour long. The whole way there Uncle Brian and I talked about an array of things. 
"I need Monty to be okay," He said, putting his hand inside the pet carrier and stroking Monty. Monty meowed at his touch, "He's always been sick, even as a kitten." 
Because of my Uncle's health problems, he decided to adopt a cat that also had a lot of health problems. No one else ever wanted to adopt a cat who had as many health problems as he did. 
The drive there was beautiful, but the reason why we were making the trip wasn't. 
I looked over at my uncle as he peered down at his old furry friend. 
My uncle is an eccentric man. He has a bald head and a big white beard and kind blue-green eyes. He's very tall and walks with a cane. He lives in an attachment to our house that was originally built as a garage because he has a tumor wrapped around his jugular vein and a genetic disorder where he has awful blood clots. Someday in the near future, he will have to have his legs amputated. 
He used to have a job in Immigration and has an autographed picture of Ronald Regan on the wall from when he met him. 
Now, he's retired at the age of 46. For Uncle Brian, losing his cat would just be another loss for him. 
We drove to the vet clinic and had light conversation as we did. Like the big elephant in the room, the sound of Monty's sallow breathing was a painful reminder of why we were taking this drive along the jagged down east coast that, on another happier day, I'd enjoy taking. 
I helped me uncle and Monty into the vet building. I sat down to wait in the waiting room, but my uncle insisted that I come into the vet's office with him. 
In the vet's office, we were surrounded by little happy things. Posters of puppies and colorful decorations. It almost makes you forget that most of the animals that come in this room don't come out. 
We paced around in the room and my uncle tried to talk, but most of his words came out as babbles. Clearly, he knew that there was something deeply wrong with Monty. 
The nurse came in and my uncle didn't stop talking the whole time she checked Monty's temperature and looked into his eyes, ears and mouth. Because of Monty's ear problems, his ears were sewn shut earlier just that ear. 
"He's been sick ever since he was a kitten... He's really not that old... He lost weight over the summer just because he was going outside and being more active... Yeah, his ears are sewn shut, the doctor said that was the best way to make his ear infections stop... He has problems with his lungs and skin problems... But last night he stopped eating and Monty never misses a meal... He was limping yesterday but now he can't get up at all... He's so cold..." 
"Yes," The nurse intervened, "His temperature is 93... the normal for a cat is from 100-103." 
Uncle Brian looked at Monty with heavy eyes, "That's so low..." 
"The doctor will be in in just a minute.." She said and left the room. 
My uncle didn't say much this time, and that's not like him. He stood next to Monty on the table and pet his fur. He said things to him, and Monty would meow in return. 
After a wait that seemed like forever, the doctor walked in. 
My uncle started in with the exact same things he told the nurse. The doctor started feeling around Monty's body as my uncle continued talking. 
I watched the doctor's face. He was older and had balding blonde hair and blotchy skin, but kind green eyes. As he felt around Monty's body, I heard him whisper, "Wow" as his brows furrowed. 
I didn't need anything other then that to realize that Monty wasn't going to be okay. I sat down in a chair and watched as he continued examining Monty's limp body. Monty let out wheezes and meowed; I wanted to yell at the doctor to stop because it was clearly hurting him. 
Once my uncle stopped talking, the doctor brought his hands together and let out a heavy sigh. 
"Well, one of Monty's kidneys is three times it's normal size, and the other kidney is smaller then it should be."  
My uncle didn't respond right away, "That's not good, is it?" 
"No," The doctor said quietly, "It's not. And his temperature is so low - 10 degrees lower then it should be, actually. And at that point, we're talking about the body shutting down." 
"Could it be..." My uncle started, "Kidney failure?" 
"It could be.." The doctor started, "But there is no 100% way of me knowing that Monty won't be okay and that he will. I could run blood tests and x-rays but honestly, those things could only be prolonging the inevitable." The doctor paused, clearly not wanting to go on, "Monty's body is shutting down. That's why he's been limping, because he isn't getting circulation to his legs." 
My uncle made a noise in the back of his throat and shifted his weight on his cane. He cleared his throat and started, "You need to do what you think is right." He said in a very quiet, sad voice. 
"You want me to go ahead and put him down?" The doctor asked. 
My uncle only nodded. The doctor nodded as well and left the room. 
Like he had been kicked in the stomach, my uncle hit the wall in a fit of sobs. He was crying and I just realized that I had been crying for some minutes now. Instinctively, I wrapped my arms around him as he cried on my shoulder. 
He put his arm out to Monty and stroked him. 
"Oh, Monty... Oh no, Monty..." He said helplessly, "I wish there is some way I could help you..." 
We sat in the room with Monty and both cried. I repeated over and over how sorry I was, and I felt even more sorry because I was no help in this situation. 
The doctor came back in and Uncle Brian and I were both stroking Monty. My uncle wanted the remains for burial. I stroked underneath Monty's chin and he purred lowly against my hand; I knew that that was his favorite spot. His green eyes looked happy somehow, as if he knew he would no longer be in pain. 
"Wow," The doctor repeated. I wish he would stop using that word, "I can't find his veins." He was poking around Monty's leg with the needle. Monty's veins were shutting down. 
And when he was finally able to find Monty's veins, the injection was done. 
I had seen animals die before. I watched my dog get hit by a car when I was a kid; my mom once accidentally ran the dryer with my cat in it the day before Christmas. But I had never seen an animal get put to sleep. 
It was so peaceful and quick, I didn't even know that Monty was gone until the doctor said; 
"He's gone now." 
My uncle and I were both still sobbing, and the woman handed us a box of tissues. 
The drive home was quiet. My uncle was the first to speak; something light about how beautiful of a day it was. 
Once we got home, my father, my uncle and I went to bury Monty out back in one of the fields. My dad had to do most of the digging because my uncle's legs were in a lot of pain. We picked a spot under a tree that my uncle could see from his window. 
So he would always know where he was. 
We covered the grave with rocks and the sun was high in the sky; it lit up Monty's spot. 
"He always loved to sit next to the window and look out at the field," My uncle muttered and placed more rocks on top of his grave, "Goodbye, old friend." 

Week 1 theme part three

As An Adult


After four years of high school came the real world. Not the MTV show, the actual real world.
As an adult, I learned even more about disappointment. But I also learned even more about myself.
I learned to be self sufficient as it was my responsibility to take care of myself. I couldn't rely on anyone else.
As an adult, I kept the same friends that I had through high school. My family became more important to me; home became a treat and away became a burden.
I began missing the things I thought I'd never miss; I realized just how good the simplicity was.
But isn't that how all humans are? They either want things back or they want things that haven't happened yet. And I am no exception. I spend my days either day dreaming about tomorrow or thinking about yesterday.

After two weeks of moving all of my stuff out of the old farm house in Waite, I was fully moved into my new apartment in Orono. It was small and old, but at the time it was my first own place. My sister and I were excited for the time that was to come. 
I finished dropping off my stuff at the new apartment and said goodbye to my Mom and went to the movies with my sister and one of her friends. 
The whole time at the movie, I couldn't help but think about the years I had ahead of me. How exciting they all seemed at that very moment. The possibilities were endless! 
But once I got back to apartment that night after the movie, the reality of what was happening to my life hit me. 
When I left the apartment, my room was full of boxes and scattered items that I had yet to put away. 
When I walked into my new bedroom, I gasped. 
My mother had hung all of my posters and my bulletin board on my wall, she put away all of my clothes and set up all my furniture, and my bed was completely made. All of the boxes were gone and it looked like I had lived in this room for months already when it hadn't even been a day yet. 
On my bed was a note that said; 


Love you, 
Mom. 
xoxo. 


I sat on my bed with a lump in my throat. 


When I graduated high school, I thought that that happiness would last forever. But as soon as I was separated from those classmates I had had for a large part of my life, it felt like I was losing them as friends forever. For days after graduation I didn't eat and all I could do was sleep. My parents wanted to take me to the hospital. My father said he wanted his little girl back. But I thought I would never be okay.
As an adult, the warm memories impact me more heavily then the bad. Because those are the times I miss. Those are the times that are gone. But now, as an adult, you still catch glimpses of the very young girl I once was.
I still cry when I watch Disney classics; my favorite animal are still sea lions; I still eat all the olives at Christmas and Thanksgiving. I'm taller and I'm years older, but I still cover my face when I cry. I still cringe at roadkill. I still dance in the grocery store when no one's looking, and I still act silly from time to time. Our sleepovers are still full of sleepless nights, and the guest list remains almost the same.
But now I have a job, now I have bills, now I have a home to manage and a cat to feed. I have a car to maintain, and I have appointments I must keep up with.
And I've changed and grown so much.
But, I still write stories and poems for fun. But now, writing is something I'm aspiring to turn into apart of my career. I still want to write fantastical stories about mermaids, ghosts, wizards and warlocks. It's just now when I write those stories, my grammar has improved.

Week 1 Theme part two

I Got a Bit Older

Before I knew it, Santa and the Easter Bunny weren't real anymore. I didn't say hello to strangers anymore. The small elementary school I went to became a memory. 
Once I got a bit older, I had an epiphany. I realized that at any given point in time in my life, there was always going to be something to worry about. 
I joined the Civil Air Patrol and learned almost everything I know about respect. I went to Arlington National Cemetery and watched as kids not much older then me thought I was a soldier; I saluted men and women with a face too stern for a teenage girl. 

"It all clicked." My grandmother told me, "You were silly before that first meeting. But when you were up there, saluting Major Murray," She shook her head and paused, "It was like everything clicked. You grew up, right there." 

Drama club taught me not to be nervous in front of large crowds, and it also taught me that glue-on beards smell and itch. Band taught me to appreciate music; chorus taught me to sing. Art club taught me that I don't have a steady hand. Photojournalism showed me how much I love photography, and how powerful I felt when I wrote. The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier showed me how proud I am to be an American. It taught me I could do just about anything I wanted. With some hard work of course. 
When I got a bit older, I learned about disappointment. 
Things didn't always fall into place as I had told myself they would. High school wasn't as easy as I thought - hell, it was nowhere near as easy as I thought it'd be. 
The job I held in the local grocery store for two and a half years through high school helped me learn to manage money, and it forced me to learn how to be good with people. I learned what it was like to not be able to do things because of work. 

I knew what it was like to be bullied. I knew what embarrassment felt like. 
"Look at that huge nose!" Someone once yelled as I stood in front of the whole school. The comment was paired with cruel laughter. 
"Who the fuck just said that?!" I yelled back. 
Just like that, the laughter stopped and all wide eyes were on me. 
And then, I ran off crying. 

Alone in the locker room, I sat down on a bench and covered my humiliated face and my huge nose with my hands. 
I was at that awkward age where everything was going in different directions and everything was changing. I had acne and I was overweight; my hair was frizzy and my eyes seemed far too small for my round face. 
I sat alone in the locker room and the lights were off. I didn't want to look in the mirror and face myself. I wanted to be left completely alone. 
I was in there for a few moments when I heard someone open the door. 
I fought every urge to tell them to go away. But deep down, I knew I wanted someone in there with me. 
I kept my face in my hands and I felt someone sit next to me and put their arm around me. 
Through my sobs, I heard a soft voice say, 
"They're cruel, aren't they?" 
I looked over at the person and realized it was a teacher who taught freshman science. She was overweight and the kids never left her alone about it. Earlier that week she had a milk carton thrown at her in the hallway. 
I didn't say anything and continued to sob into my pathetic fat hands. 
"One day, Holliann, they're all going to be stuck in this town and you'll be somewhere doing well." She said softly to me, rubbing my back, "You can't let it get to you." 
Soon after she came into the room, more people came in too. My closest friends were in there now, and many other faces that passed me in the hall. They were all huddled around me, saying kind words. Some people were in and didn't say much, but looked at me with eyes full of emotion. 
But I'll never forget who was the first person to come sit next to me. 
The one who knew how cruel they could be all too well. 

Sleepovers were filled with laughs and no sleep. When we all got licenses, we started carpooling to Calais for adventures and we didn't need our parents to take us to the movies. Many of my friends at boyfriends. I always had a crush on someone I couldn't have. Things seemed to be in constant changing motion, and I had a hard time keeping up with it all.
When I got a bit older, writing was still something I enjoyed. It wasn't something I did as often, but it was something I still sometimes had to do. I became a better writer as I got older, but the dream slightly started to dim. I wanted a more exciting future then being a writer. 
As I got a bit older, I had a hard time staying as enthusiastic as I was when I was a child. 
But, I still had just as many dreams. 

Week 1 Theme part one (Just playing some catch up!)

As A Child 

I can't say that I remember every day of my life, every second, or maybe there are even months of my life that I've once lived but don't remember now. But every piece of my life has created a person. It's amazing how small experiences can have such little impact - and sometimes the biggest mistakes don't affect you at all.
I've felt as hopeless as everyone else - I've felt as low as I believe everyone feels - I've felt that pure happiness that at some point will find us all. It may not be constant like a light that is switched on, maybe it's like a bumble bee flying. It goes up, it goes down, but it's still moving.
As an adult, I'm a bit of a realist.
But as a child, I was a dreamer.
I wanted to be a movie star, I wanted to be a singer, I wanted to be a famous author. I was fascinated, and still am, with weather. Why? Weather is unpredictable and it can govern our lives. So I wanted to be a meteorologist.
I had a bowl cut and big round, pink glasses. I ran around in the woods without shoes, I spent all of my time with my two siblings.
We were poor, but I never noticed. No, I didn't have boxes full of Barbies like my friends did, but there was always food on the table.
I used to listen to my parents fight on the stairs; I'd sit on my roof under the stars and think. I sang to myself all the time.
As a child, my enthusiasm was unstoppable. I believed every person was good. I smiled at strangers and always said 'hello'; it never occurred to me that they could throw me into the back of a van and I'd never see my parents again.
I thought that I'd always be as happy as I was as a child.
I strongly, completely and wholly believed in Santa, the Easter Bunny and every other holiday magical creature. I went to church and my mom would pinch my leg when I made too much noise; I spent every other weekend playing on the bay outside of grandparents' house; I climbed to the tippy top of trees. Once, I climbed to the top of a tree next to a house my dad was putting a new roof on. I thought he'd kill me when I called his name and I was ten feet from him. I was so high up that tree that it was bending at my weight.
I had skinned knees and rough feet. I caught frogs in my pond and went hunting with my dad; even if all I did was make noise and ask too many questions. My elementary school was small. I'd sneak sips of my dad's Budweiser when he wasn't looking.
I stacked wood all winter; I didn't wear sunscreen; I didn't wear a helmet or knee pads when I rode my bike.
Somehow, I'm still alive.
At this age, writing was by far my biggest passion. I wrote all the time and enjoyed every minute of it. Teachers would read my stories aloud, and I would bask in the glory. I wrote stories about fantastical beings and creatures. I dreamed of stories about witches and mermaids; I wanted to write books that would be bigger then the Harry Potter series.
As a child, writing was something that I just did because I did. I wrote essays for fun, I wrote stories to let everyone read... I thought writing was the biggest dream I'd ever have.

Week 1 prompts (I never did this one)

1. Alone in a quiet room. Listen. What do you hear? 



The tip-tapping of the keyboard and the swimming of thoughts in my mind are what seem to be keeping me from writing well. Sometimes writer's block feels like I'm trapped in a box and can't get out. It's an awful feeling; if you can't write, how can you fully and completely express those feelings that words aloud cannot express? 
In my mind I'm telling myself all the negative things that a person with writer's block should never tell themselves. 
"You'll never write a good story".  
Well, no, not with that attitude
"When will I find an inspiration of some kind? "
Exactly when you stop being negative
"Everyone who has ever told me I'm a talented writer are liars." 
People don't lie for no reason. Trust them

The old house I'm sitting in creaks and croaks around me. I swivel around in my chair for a few seconds, as if rattling around my thoughts will help somehow. 
"That's it!" 
The only negative things here are right here in my head
And then when I overcome that, 
I write. 

2. Alone in a quiet room. What do you see? 


Alone time isn't as awful as everyone makes it out to be. 

You get time to think to yourself without interruptions; you get a chance to really think about those things that have been bothering you all week. 
With a big red mug full of dark black coffee, I sit on the chair on the porch and surround myself with the crisp air. Through the old foggy windows, the daylight shines through. I sit and I wrap the blanket around me. For a nice moment, I don't think about anything. 
It's sunrise. The warm light of the sun reaches my face, and it causes me to close my eyes. I complimented this warm feeling with a sip of my coffee, and it's like the warmth reaches my toes.
Everybody needs to watch a sunrise from a stationary spot. 
Usually, I watch the sunrise from my bedroom window as I am throwing together an outfit to go to work. 
Or, I'm driving on the highway or Route 2. 
Those times, the sunrise isn't always as warm. 
But now, with the light wind and the fireflies still blinking, the sunrise seems like something I forget to appreciate. 
I don't have time to appreciate the sunrise, I think quietly to myself. 
And then I think again with a snide smile, Yes I do. 
It's here every day. 

3. Alone in a quiet room. How did you get here? 


This waiting room is meant to be so comfortable it's actually making me very uncomfortable. 
This day has already been so stressful; there's a snowstorm and it's April, I'm an hour too early for this job interview, the hairdo I spent so long perfecting was ruined by this unexpected snow. 
I'm waiting for my interviewer to come in, and I think briefly think about why exactly I need this second job. 
I had just lived through the worst winter of my life thus far. 
Taking on a busy school schedule caused me to be able to work less. I only worked three days a week and made, roughly, 90 dollars a week. I was constantly extremely broke, and this winter was full of ridiculous snowstorms and I didn't acquire a good set of snow tires until January (to get said snow tires, I won 500 dollars playing bingo for the first time). Before getting those tires, I went off the road and almost died more times then years I've been alive. My old tires were as slick as ice. If it weren't for that bingo game, I probably never would have gotten snow tires. Not making 90 dollars a week. 
But, all winter I applied for jobs. I went everywhere and applied and called back but nowhere was hiring. This was the first job interview I got; and I applied for this job in December and now it was April. I had been hoping to get more hours at my first job, but no such luck there either. Not only that, but I was so depressed all winter that I thought the only fix was a second job. I lived in a deathtrap, hellhole of an apartment, and 96% of the time, I was there alone with Pistachio. I dyed my hair black, I lost weight because I never ate, and I could barely go home because I could never afford the gas. To say the least, it was the most depressed I had ever been. 
So here I was. A job interview at Border's Books and Music. Finally; another chance. 
I waited and waited for the manager to come interview me. I had almost all my fingers and toes crossed, and in my mind I was praying, hoping, pleading that I got this job. 
I needed this second job. 
At the time, I thought it was the fix for everything. 
And after what seemed like hours of waiting, and the snow in my had melted and it looked like I got straight out of the shower and came here, a woman called me into the office. 
I tried to fix my hair as best as possible, but at this point it wasn't worth it. I stood up with a smile and introduced myself, wet hair and all. 
Within a week, I was hired. 

Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Week 13 (64. Dump the trash bin on the floor, pull on your rubber gloves, and start hunting for the truth that only your throwaways know.)

Secrets are little pieces of dreams and little pieces of lies. You want to hide them. Nothing is more frightening then someone finding out the things you keep away from the world. Which is why a wall is built up - to protect you and to keep others out. No one needs to know the things you don't even want to admit to yourself.
I sighed and wondered about these secrets that everyone keeps.
Maybe my happiest coworker is secretly deeply depressed. Maybe that innocent looking girl is actually a bit of a trollop with self esteem issues. Maybe my nearest and dearest friend secretly talks behind my back.
These are the things we will never know for sure.
Every person in the crowded room I'm in is like a jigsaw puzzle - the small pieces and tid bits add up to one big picture.
That guy over there may be wearing a plaid shirt but that's just one piece of who he is. It's fascinating when you start peeling away the layers and you realize how complex human beings are.
I get up and begin walking towards the door. Outside, the world is bustling around me - people are on the crosswalk, cars are passing by,  it looks like it may rain.
I begin to walk. I'm not headed any place. I just like to walk.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Week 12 Theme

 This is about my grandparents :)  
And these are only a few stories I know about my grandparents!

It's like that first time you put your hands up when you're riding a bike down a hill; that first time you realize you're doing something dangerous and something that you probably shouldn't do. It's an instant rush of feeling and power, almost. Like you're the chooser of your own destiny.
Sometimes, that's how I feel. So impossibly empowered, when in reality, I'm very powerless compared to this great big world.
I felt that way as I snuck behind the school that day to play a quick game of poker with my buddies. I didn't want her to see - even though the money I knew I'd win was going towards a milkshake for her - because she thought gambling was something only a weak person did.
I saw Tom and Robbie sitting under a maple tree with a deck of cards. I approached them and sat down.
"Donny! You decided to join us." Robbie said smugly as I sat down, "What did ya tell Jean this time?"
I half smiled, "That I had to meet a teacher and finish some math homework. So we better get this done real quick. You might as well just hand me your money now."
"Pffffft." Tom scoffed, "You think so, smart ass. Robbie, deal 'em out."
I put down a quarter and the other two put down two whole dollars. I already knew I'd win; they were being cocky. There's a difference between my confidence and their cockiness; I actually was good at poker.
After an all-too quick game and a few curse words from the other two, I walked away with three dollars and Tom and Robbie's dignity.
I walked towards the front of the school and saw that Jean was still there, waiting for me.
Under the sunlight, her bouncy dark curls were looking even more striking then usual. Her olive skin was glowing. She was sitting on a bench with her head over a book. Her legs were daintily crossed and she looked ladylike in her blue striped sundress. She looked up when she heard me coming.
Just like that... she smiled. Her Italian brown eyes were as warm as ever, and she snapped her book shut when I put my hand out to her.
"That didn't take long. Your teacher gave up on you, huh?" She teased.
I smiled and she took my hand, "You still pretending that you can read?"
We both laughed and started walking down the street towards the diner. On the way, she talked about the book she was reading and something funny her father had said the night before at dinner.
Hell, she might as well have been talking about how to build a nuclear bomb - I had no idea what she was saying. I just enjoyed hearing her talk. I liked watching her talk. She was passionate about the things she talked about. How much she loved wind chimes and the ocean.
We got there and I opened the door for her. She said thank you as she brushed past me, and I realized she smelt of sweat pea.
We were sat at a booth near a window and she ordered a chocolate milkshake, me a vanilla. It brought me joy that I could buy her a milkshake. Something so simple like that; a milkshake. Either way it made her happy.
"I'd like to have a farm someday." She said as our milkshakes came. She quickly picked the cherry off the top of hers and popped it into her mouth.
"A farm?" I asked as I handed her her straw.
She nodded, "Yes. A farm. I've always loved animals."
I chuckled, "Well, Jean, a farm is more then raising animals. It's a lot of hard work."
She took a sip from her milkshake, "I know. I've just always wanted one."
It was silent for a moment. I watched as the sunlight from the window reflected in her eyes. Her hands cupped her malt glass; she had the hands of a hard-working person. As beautiful and kind as Jean was, she was a hard nose and a smart ass just like me, only she looked better doing it.
We were seventeen, and I knew I'd spend the rest of my life with her.
And within the next year... we were hitched. 


Jean and I were in a bumpy old truck that was puttering up a rocky hill in eastern Ireland. She was holding the video camera and kept cursing when she couldn't get a steady shot.
This certain behavior of Jean's was something I always admired of her. She didn't do what anyone told her to do. She wanted to do what she wanted to do.
"Jean, look at this hill. You're not going to catch anything with that camera." I told her as we hit another bump that practically lifted her out of her seat.
"Shut up, Don." She snapped, "I want to make a video. Can't I just do that without you bothering me?"
I raised my hands and laughed, "Go right ahead, you coot. I know you. You'll watch that video and it'll be so shaky it'll give you motion sickness."
She scowled at me. I looked at her and shook my head. She drove my crazy, that woman. And I could only repay her by driving her just as equally mad.
We were traveling in Ireland and we had just spent five days in Italy. We visited some of her family members and saw where her parents were from - both her parents and my were stowaways to America. Only she was Italian and I was Irish.
Let's just say her family didn't like me, and I didn't like them. Old Italian coots.
Now we were on the way to where my family was from. All Jean had done thus far in Ireland was complain. Big surprise.
Jean and I arrived, finally, at the old village where my parents grew up. I helped her out of the old truck and she snapped at me when I made a remark about how long it took her to sit up.
The village was just like my parents used to tell me; stone houses and dirt paths, green rolling hills and not a touch of anything modern.
"What a dump." Jean said as she slung her bag over her shoulder.
I laughed, "Is it any better then that old village of clay you dragged me to?"
She furrowed her brow at me and we began walking.
The people were all friendly and said hello. People were walking dogs, carrying laundry baskets and tipping their hats as you walked by. It was very different from home.
We stayed at an inn that night, Jean tossing and turning all night complaining about the heat, and the next day we were off to the Blarney Castle.
The trip to the castle was just about as miserable and bumpy as the first one, and Jean was still hanging onto that camera.
Finally, we got to the castle and strayed away from a tour because we didn't want to be guided by an obnoxious guy in a suit who smiles too much. We slowly walked together down the dark corridors; holding hands here and there.
"This place is gigantic." Jean said as she examined the stone walls with her camera, "It's unlike any other place I've ever seen."
We walked around for a moment and I admired her figure as she stretched up to look at markings on the wall and bent over to look at things lower to the ground. Everything she saw she documented with the camera.
We both stayed quiet for a few moments. To most people, this silence would have been louder then any noise. To us, we were two young people enjoying each other's company.
"Wanna go kiss the stone?" I asked after a few minutes.
She looked away from her camera and at me, a confused look on her face, "Excuse me?"
I smiled, "Kiss the stone. The Blarney stone. It's an Irish legend."
"Well, if it's an Irish legend, that's exactly why I haven't ever heard of it."
I rolled my eyes, "It's right here in the castle. You kiss it and it gives you good luck."
She shrugged, "Why not? I could always use more luck in my life."
"Couldn't we all?" I agreed as I guided her towards where the stone is.
"Maybe that rock will give me a new husband. One that don't talk so much." She teased.
I couldn't help but laugh. We walked on and found the stone. People were all around looking at it and chattering about the history of it. It looked like just another piece of the castle, but you had to lean upside down, whilst holding onto an iron rail to kiss the stone. Jean and I approached the stone.
"Looks like every other rock I've ever seen." Jean said lowly.
"But this rock gives you eloquence and good luck when you kiss it." I corrected her. "I'll go first."
I leaned over the short stone wall and hung onto the iron bar. I kissed the stone and the people around all clapped and cheered.
"Feel any luckier?" She asked as I came up.
"Sure do!" I replied, "Your turn."
Jean rolled her eyes and handed the camera. She leaned over the wall, hung onto the bar and pressed her lips onto the stone.
I decided to be a smartass.
"Look everyone!" I yelled as loud as I could, "An Italian kissed the stone and it didn't even crack!"
Jean shot up as everyone started laughing and cheering. I joined them in laughing, but Jean didn't even crack a smile.
If looks could kill... Oh boy, I would've died right there.


I woke up, like I did every day, before the sun. Jean and I, almost as if it was biologically imprinted in us, woke sup together at this time every morning. Jean started breakfast, usually eggs and bacon, and I went to wake up the kids.
My hips were popping and hurting as I walked. My hips always hurt, especially this early in the morning. When I was a young man in the army, my hip disintegrated and I spent a good two years in and out of the hospital. You should've seen the man I was when I was in my prime, though. I had the honor of performing the color guard at the changing of the guards at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier in Arlington National Cemetery. Yup, I was pretty sharp.
Now, I'm a crazy old man with a bad hip and a farm.
"Donny! Joyce!" I yelled up the stairs with the cowbell I frequently used to wake them up, "Wake up!"
It was summer, so the kids didn't have school but they still had to help with the farm. Breezy Hill Farm, we called it. That part was Jean's idea.
I heard them groan and roll out of bed. I went out into the kitchen.
"What's for breakfast, woman?" I asked my wife as she stood over the stone. As she got older, her hair started turning a tiny bit gray, but it was still mostly
"What do I cook you for breakfast every morning, Mr. Bergin? Eggs and bacon. We have four hundred chickens and thirty pigs. We're having eggs and bacon for breakfast for the rest of our lives."
I laughed smugly and laid a kiss on her cheek as I went into the bedroom and changed my clothes.
Once dressed, I saw my father in my reflection. My dark hair was graying very slightly, and my blue eyes were getting bluer as I got older. To most people, getting older is a scary thing. To me, nothing is really all that scary. I have a good family and I've been pretty lucky in my life. Getting older just shows I've earned it.
When I came out, the table was set. Donny and Joyce were sitting at the table. They looked like they had just fought their way out of hell. I call them kids... but Donny is 13 and Joyce is 17.
"This is why you kids shouldn't be out so late every night." I said as I sat down to eat breakfast with my family.
"We have a lot to do today." Jean said, "So, Don... Don't start."
I shrugged, "I was just making a suggestion to them."
We ate breakfast hurriedly and got ready to begin the day. We all were outside in time to see the sun start rising and the sky began to brighten.
"Donny, go feed the pigs and the horses and shovel slop." Jean said sternly. Donny nodded and headed towards the barn. "Joyce, go take care of the pheasants and the cows. They need to be fed and their stables need to be cleaned." Joyce followed directions as easily as Donny did.
"Well, Hile Hitler." I said sarcastically, "What's gotten into you this morning?"
"It's those damn chickens, that's what!" She cried, "There are too many of them, Don."
I waved my hand dismissively, "No, there are not. You can never have too many chickens."
Jean grabbed her head and tugged at her hair, "That's because you don't take care of them! I take care of them! Just like ever other mess around here!"
"I do to take care of them." I replied defensively, "I eat them and their eggs."
Jean let out a frustrated shriek and hurried into the house. She came out with a butcher knife and pointed it at me as she stormed passed me, "You think that you can tell me what to do, Mr. Bergin, but you've known me long enough to know that you have another thing coming."
"Jean, what are you doing?" I called after her as she hurried towards the chicken coops.
I went after her as fast as my hips and newly healed broken leg could take me. My feet were seeping in mud, which didn't help with my speed. By the time I got to the chicken coop and opened the door, Jean had already begun doing what I was trying to prevent her from doing.
There in the chicken coop was my beautiful olive-skinned, black-haired wife. She was screaming at the top of her lungs and chopping off the heads of countless of our chickens. She was angrily yelling at them and me as she did so, and I couldn't help but laugh at how much of a lunatic she was. A sight like this from a woman should have scared away a normal man - but I never said I was a normal man.
Once she was done she was breathing heavily and her eyes were wild. There were dead chickens everywhere and she looked up at me and threw the knife on the ground.
Honestly, I tried to stop myself from saying anything. I knew just how mad she was. But, the smart ass inside of me just couldn't help it.
I cleared my throat and said, "Well, you're going to be pretty angry with yourself when you have to clean this mess up."
Oh, boy.
If looks could kill, I would've been laying there with those dead chickens.

Monday, November 28, 2011

58. I met the most amazing person last week.

Sometimes the morning sun scares me the most. It's a reminder that I must wake up and face the day. 
Well, usually I'm up before the morning sun anyways. 

In my dreams, there is an amazing person. Someone who makes me forget why I worry; someone who makes me only want to sleep.  

A person who is painfully unreal. Because the 'most amazing person' seems only like a dream to me. 

Who is the most amazing person I've ever met? I'm not sure. 
First, I think of my mother's laugh and smile. 
Or maybe my father's good nature and hard work. 
Could it be my grandfather's quick wit? My Nana's kind heart? 
My Grammy's sass and strong opinion?
My sister's drive? 
My brother's heart? 
The undying support of all my friends? 

They're all equally amazing. 
Even though my mother cares too much about outside appearances. 
Even though my father isn't exactly warm and fuzzy. 
Even though my grandfather is a dream crusher. Even though my Nana pushes too much. 
Even though my Grammy always refers to gay people as 'a little loopy in the head'. 
Even though my sister is a little anal retentive and controlling. 
And my brother is a dweeb. 
My friends are still amazing, even if they tend to ask too much of me sometimes. 
But I've known them all longer then a week. 

56. Sex, drugs, rock and roll!

Thrashing and crashing around, the crowd was screaming as the band up on the stage continued to scream into their microphones. The night sky was starry and dark above the thousands of sweaty heads. The cries and guitar squeals could probably be heard from miles away. It was like a light and sound show full of wild animals.
She peered into the concert through the chain-link fence and wanted nothing more then to be there. She clung to the fence with her black nail polished fingers. In her left pocket safely nestled a bag full of pot and in the other was her precious glass pipe. Her favorite band was up on that stage, and because she spent all of her money on the pot, she was watching the concert from the other side.
The lights, the sounds, the noises, the smell of stale beer- it was all magic to her senses.
How would she get in there?
She looked around frantically and knew she had to be able to get in somehow. It was an outdoor concert; how could they possibly be able to block off the entire thing?
She bit her lip and started walking towards the gates of the concert. It was totally protected by big lugs wearing bright yellow 'CONCERT STAFF' t-shirts.She wondered if she could hop the fence on the other side and find a way in. 
An idea hitting her, she turned around to walk the other way. She knew that near the fence on the other side was a tree that she could easily jump from and land inside the concert grounds.
When she found herself at the tree, she began climbing and realized that the combat boots she was wearing wasn't helping her. It took her longer then she thought, but she kept an eye out and the area seemed to be clear.
From the top of a branch that was just above the fence, she realized that the ground was further away then she thought. However, when the band started playing one of her favorite songs, she closed her eyes and quickly jumped from the branch and landed on her feet on the muddy ground.
"Well, that was impressive." A grim voice appeared from the shadows on the other side of the fence. She turned around and saw a tall and dark figure appearing from beneath the shadow that was cast from a few tall bushes.
"Fuck off." She hissed.
His lips parted and he laughed lowly, "Beautiful and sweet. What a catch."
She exhaled sharply, "What do you want?"
He shoved his hands in his pockets, "Did I say I wanted anything?"
She heard the crowd cheer and knew she had very little time to spare, "You're bothering me and I have places to be."
"I don't think you wanna be pissing me off, hot pants." He said challengingly, "My buddy works over at the gate. I could send him a text letting him know that some little girl has snuck into the show."
Her heart was pounding in her ears as her anger rose. She clenched her fists, thought for a moment and unclenched them.
"You know." She started saying in a calmer voice and shortened the gap between them, "That really isn't necessary."
He raised an eyebrow, "Oh, it isn't?"
She shook her head and ran her hand through her jet-black hair,"What did you say I was? Beautiful and sweet?"
"Those are the words I used."
She shifted her weight on one hip and leaned towards him, the fence separating them, "What else am I?"
He laughed a little, "Well, you're hot as fuck."
"Well," She said with a sultry tone as they grew so close she could feel his breath on her face, "Close your eyes and I'll show you how hot I really am."
To her pleasure, the guy closed his eyes and as soon as he did, she was off like a flash. He heard him yelling as she ran off towards the concert. She ran past all the beer tents and the porta potties towards her goal.
Once she got to the mosh pit, she realized it was more wild then it seemed on the other side of the fence. She wasn't sure how she was going to get inside the crowd. So she just started pushing through with her elbows, and she certainly overestimated her strength.
"Nice try, little lady." An overweight bald guy yelled and pushed her back.
"Fuck you!" She yelled and kept pushing. The guy laughed and let her through. She started squeezing and pushing through people until she got close enough to enjoy the concert.
She was bobbing her head and enjoying the song as someone next to her tapped her.
"Wanna hit?" They asked and held up a lit joint. She instantly complied and took two big hits off of it and passed it back.
She let the smoke out of her mouth slowly and watched as it hazily rose up to the sky. She smiled and enjoyed the song.
Once the band was done with that song, they announced, "Hey, everybody, so, this is our last song!"
"FUCK!" She yelled when she realized what the lead singer of her favorite band had just announced.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Week 3: 61 A. 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover!

50. Leave them a ransom note asking for your heart back.
49. A post-it stamp 'I can't, don't hate me'.
48. Leaving everything they ever bought you on their doorstep... on fire.
47. A text message break up.
46. Or a phone call.
45. Send them a singing telegram.
44. Fax message.
43. Carrier pigeon?
42. Send them a fake death notice (your fake death notice).
41. Planning a date and then not showing up, and then not answering any of their phone calls.
40. If you live together... change the lock.
39. Email / twitter and/or tweet.
38. Record yourself singing a break-up song and send it to them.
37. If you have a relationship status on facebook, simply change it back to 'single'.
36. Sending them dead flowers with a note that reads 'these flowers signify our love'.
37. Faking a head injury and acting like you can't remember who they are.
36. Telling them you have just realized that you are homosexual. (You're lying, of course.)
35. Accusing them of cheating on you (when you know they haven't) and break up with them.
34. You could always be honest. (I suppose.)
33. Jedi mind tricks.
32. Convince them that you've decided to run away with a Russian circus as a clown.
31. Change your voicemail or answering machine message to, "Hey, ______,  if this is you calling... We're over, and don't call me again."
30. Abducted by aliens always works.
29. The classic: "It's me, not you."
28. Tell them that you're going to jail.
27. Send them a 'Goodbye' halmark card.
26. Make them break up with you by doing the following things:
25. Repeat everything they say in a high-pitched voice.
24. Get a (fake) tattoo of their face and make them think it's real.
23. Leave them flowers... everywhere. All the time.
22. Call them by the wrong name. "Oh, hey, Jenny. I mean Becca. Or was it Tabatha...?"
21. Forget their birthday, your anniversary, Christmas, Valentine's day....
20. Invite them over and make nothing but their least favorite foods for dinner, whilst playing their least favorite movie on TV.
19. Use the most sickening pet names, in public, on the phone, at home, everywhere. (Silly bunny, cookie lips, pudding pie)
18. Whenever they call, answer the phone saying, "Hello there, my future husband/wife."
17. Borrow their favorite CD and return it mysteriously broke in half. "How did that happen?"
16. Tell them they remind you exactly of their mother/father.
15. Leave all of your stuff at their place. Toothbrush, shampoo, soap, conditioner, even underwear.
14. Make sure they see you as you kiss your cat/dog on the lips.
13. Go into the bathroom, for a very long time and come out yelling, "WOOOOO--EEE!! You better light a candle!"
12. Every time you compliment them, follow it up with two things you dislike about them.
11. Borrow their car frequently and adjust all the seats and mirrors dramatically every single time. And change all their radio settings.
10. Steal the covers. And the pillows. And hog the bed. Every night.
9. Commit a crime and frame it on them.
8. Be clingy. Hang on their every word. Text them all the time. Write on their facebook wall once an hour.
7. Tell them you someday want 6 kids.
6. Two words: stop showering.
5. Give them a huge picture of your face as a gift, accompanied with a wallet-sized version for when they're not home.
4. Watch them sleep.
3. When they ask you to do something, do the complete opposite.
2. Show up at their job, when you know they're ridiculously busy, and tell them you just came to 'chat' and stay for an hour.
1. Tell them you want to hear about every thought they've ever had, why they had it, what they think of it, and when they had it.

Week Eleven Theme

Nothing has ever saddened me as much as seeing things being forgotten. Things I used to love; things I used to cherish... they go to waste. Perhaps dreams are apart of these things that are forgotten. What was it like for me to be a young girl in high school? How many dreams did I have then?
These hallways were once the ones I walked down as I went off to my next class. I once did so much growing in these hallways.

"So, drama club at 2:30 today, right?" I asked Felicia as we walked down the hallway; students bustling in and out of lockers, couples stopping to steal a kiss. 
"Right." Felicia said nodding, "Don't forget your script! Mrs. Perry doesn't have any extras today." 
We said goodbye and went our separate ways. I stopped to say hello to Laura and waved at my lab partner across the hall as Laura explained what she was doing for her birthday this year. 
I laughed with Laura and hugged my books close to my chest as we walked together towards our next class. 
"My mom doesn't want too many girls over, so I was thinking you, Felicia and maybe Asia?" 
I agreed and smiled, "Sounds perfect." 

The dim-lit hallways were easy for me to navigate; these hallways accompanied me through many of my growing experiences.
My eyes were now on locker 106. My old freshman locker. I opened it and looked on the inside left wall of the locker.

HEB, 2007 


I smiled weakly and ran my fingers over the old scribbled sharpie mark. How liberated I had felt when I wrote this.
It's vandalism! I had told myself, even though I hadn't hesitated doing it. How many times had I opened this locker in total? How many times had I found silly surprises in this locker from my friends? The 'letter from a secret admirer' I had found after detention one day?
I closed the locker and imaged that I was still that young girl who had so much to learn. I remember coming to school and expecting popularity; I expected that everyone would like me like they did my sister. Wouldn't I be popular by association?
And then I remembered the laughs and the jokes; the first time someone had realized that I was a little clumsy and thought it was funny. The countless times I was purposely tripped and the days I cried walking down the hall. The days I called my mom and begged her just to let me come home.
On the bottom of the locker door was a faint dent. Kneeling down, the memory returned to me.

I was walking down the hall and listening to my iPod when someone decided to trip me and push me at the same time. Everything was too fast for me realize what was going on. I went flying towards the lockers and my head crashed into the bottom of my own locker, creating a Holliann-shaped dent that is still here five years later. 
I remember laying on the floor after the incident and covering my face as instant and hopeless tears started falling from my eyes. It had felt like every nerve ending in my body was screaming. I felt like screaming. 
I heard laughter surrounding me and looked up to find a circle of faces mocking me. I clumsily gathered up my scattered belongings and darted off, my tears stinging my red hot face. 

The memory still dug at my insides but as I walked away, I realized that now, I'm not the kind of woman that you can trip and push into a locker.
The carpet in the main hallway was once red and now it's green. I passed the principal's office and thought about the one time I was kicked out of a class. I was kicked out for saying the word 'virgin'. At the time I was angry; now I find the memory a little funny.
The main hallway was where I used to sit and do homework when I went to summer school for purposely failing English class. Summer school was surprisingly fun for me; you went from 8-12 every day and I got to finish early because I had the highest grade in the class.
I meandered into the bathroom and looked into the old foggy mirror, one that was so old and warped it resembled a fun house mirror.

"I hate the way I look." 

I remember telling myself as I looked at the thick, frizzy hair, the uncontrollable acne and the disturbingly large nose. As a fourteen-going-on-fifteen-year-old, I was going through the most awkward stage of my life. My feet and hands were too large for my body and I was the clumsiest person I knew.
I looked closely at who I was now.
Long, blonde-bronze hair and a nose I finally grew into (accompanied with a purple nose ring), I had grown into my looks for the most part. I never look in the mirror now and felt the way I did when I was an awkward fourteen year old. That phase was something I thought would never end. The constant helplessness; the worrying that I'd never feel normal. But now, I was half a decade older and a million times more confident. The gap in my teeth was completely gone along with the frustratingly stubborn acne.

I remember telling myself every day that my life would be better if I was prettier.

This was the bathroom where I sat with Felicia for a whole class as she cried hysterically because "the love of her life" had broken up with her; this was the bathroom where I found the bomb threat and left in a panic.
This is the bathroom where, during a school lock down, a teacher locked me in here alone because she forgot to check if it was empty or not.
My reflection showed a person who had lived through a four year roller coaster ride.
I left the bathroom and walked to the gymnasium.
In my mind, I could see myself walking into this gym on my first day as a lost and falsely confident freshman, or "smelt" as it was called here. I imagined as I grew a little every day, and a lot every year.
Up on the purple and gold curtained stage was where I performed three plays and where I graduated and threw my cap up in the air. It was also where I strutted out in a beautiful pink, poofy prom dress with a good friend on my arm as an escort. I imagined the whole gym was full of noise; I imagined a basketball game was getting heated up on that old gym floor. The pep band was playing with all it had; the extremely supportive community was there with chants and posters; the families of the players cheered them on proudly. Purple and gold was everywhere. What about winter carnival when the most ridiculous events went on in that gym? Dunk tanks and obstacle courses; karaoke and hot dog eating contests. After graduation instead of going on a trip, we had stayed right here in this gym and had an all nighter with live bands, jump houses, a hypnotist and casino games. I smiled as I remembered how Gilman, an undergrad, had hid in the school all night that night.
The tightening feeling in my chest made me almost flinch. Why had it gone so quickly? Why didn't I stop and cherish exactly how precious those moments were?
And then there were moments that weren't as precious.

How about when our school was lectured by the principal because the whole Woodland Dragon side of the gym had turned its back at a basketball game as the rival school's players were announced? Or the bomb threat assemblies? Or the time the governor came to visit us to speak to us about how the mill my father, and almost every father in the whole town, were employed at was being shut down that day? Or the assembly that came after a local STD outbreak? On the cover of the Bangor Daily news once read 'BAILEYVILLE: A RACIST TOWN' and was next to a picture that was taken in this gym.
Even worse; that gym was the location of the memorial service that was held for a boy who lived down the street from me. He had drowned while canoeing with friends.
That service was one that I'll never forget; his friends and family could barely get out their words as they talked about his life and the people he had touched. I remember a large picture of him was placed on that big stage, along with a table full of his favorite belongings.
I was lost in memories that were so loud, but my actual surroundings were chillingly quiet. How could I forget that all of these things had happened here?
I walked around a little bit as the nostalgia set in.
Why was it that every moment of these four years had contributed somehow to who I was now? What if I had sat a different lunch table? What if I wasn't bullied? What if I was effortlessly popular like I always wanted so badly to be? I dreamed of being a mighty Lady Dragon basketball star. Instead, the one year I did play I failed off on purpose.
My father has always told me never to wonder what 'could have been' because it isn't what happened, and it never will be.
But I can't help but wonder.
If I hadn't of sit at the lunch table I did, I wouldn't be as close as I am with Felicia. Felicia is the one who invited me to join Civil Air Patrol with her. That's what introduced me to Major Murray and life changing experiences I would never trade.
If I wasn't bullied in the halls every day of that gruesome freshman year, I wouldn't have the self-strength I have now. And if I wasn't bullied and was effortlessly popular, I would have a seemingly perfect high school story where I got everything I wanted. That's what I thought I wanted then.
Instead, I had misfit friends who supported me through the bullying. Instead, I performed in plays and was never a sports star. I played the French Horn and sang in the chorus. I went on the academic decathlon trip every year. I performed in the Color Guard wearing my Civil Air Patrol uniform. I worked in a grocery store for almost all of my high school career and never had time to go to the infamous pit parties that were constantly being broken up by cops.
The overcast sky streamed in a very faint light through the gym's few windows. The air was still and the gym was silent. My memories were doing all the chattering.
I never thought I'd miss this old gym with the out-dated rubber floor.
Whimsically, I started to dance.
Why? I guess I don't know. It felt right to me.
I used to worry that I was never going to fit in; I used to think the only way I'd be happy was if I was popular. I used to wish this time away. I used to want to be where I am now.
Nothing can give me my high school years back, but nothing stops me from learning all that I have learned from it. Academically, of course I learned. But in other ways I had learned even more.
I danced around and laughed to myself. How is it possible that I was fourteen five years ago?