Monday, September 26, 2011

week five prompts

18. The earth has moved under your feet, gloriously!--and nothing will ever be the same again

What it's like for people who have ions of money and no worries? What it's like to wake up in the morning and not have to think 'how will I pay for rent this month?' or 'hopefully I hear back from all of the jobs I've applied to soon'. How do people bop along happily without worries?
I worry myself to sleep every night. I worry about money. I worry about school. I dread when I get the mail because there may be bills. Is this what life is going to be like from here on out? I worry that I haven't made enough friends. I worry that I'll die an old spinster.
But what if I sold a few of my photographs and became famous.
I'd get paid to do the one thing that truly makes me feel whole. Take pictures.
My grandfather always told me that winning half the battle was having a job that you enjoyed. He spent forty years in banking, and hated every day of it. I love my job now; working with children who have behavioral needs... but what if I got paid to take photographs.
I know I'm talented in photography. I'm not arrogant or even a very confident person, but I know that I have a talent behind the camera.
One day I got a million dollar agreement for my photography. I practically never have to worry about money again. A very strange feeling overcomes me... What do I do? I don't need a job. I don't need to go to college. I'm set for life with lots of money and I get to do what I enjoy and make money from it. Hardly ever having to lift a finger, I collect blasphemous amounts of money. And seemingly, I live without a worry.
I've rolled pennies for gas before; I've lived off of processed canned food. I've never been comfortable, so even though I can spend ridiculously, I still spend frugally. But I don't keep all the money to myself; I start charities, I help out my parents, I give it back to the world.
To some people,  my world changing in such a way seems like a blessing. It would seem like the ultimate best thing to happen to me. No more budgeting, no more buying the cheapest of everything.

But I still know that money isn't everything. It didn't give me happiness. I still have worries. I have so many people wanting so much out of me... I begin to stop enjoying photography. The one thing that was always what completed me - I find less passion in it. My talent is trickling because I don't enjoy it; I'm stressed that it isn't good enough. I worry that I'm not good enough. I just want to walk through the woods and take pictures, like I did when it was only a hobby. Even though I have a huge house in California, I'd rather be in Maine.
I'd rather be broke.
Maybe things are the way they are for some kind of reason. I may not have a lot of money and I may have plenty of worries. But in reality who doesn't? My grandfather also always told me that nothing that was easy was worth doing. He's always told me that challenges were worth it. When I got rejected by the college of my dreams, my grandfather said: "Life is full of kicks. Not small kicks; big kicks. Kicks right where it hurts. You've just felt life's first kick. It sure as hell isn't the last or the hardest. You just have to get up every time."
When I don't feel like waking up in the morning, I sometimes replay that in my mind, knowing that my grandfather was onto something when he said it. Life was never meant to be easy. What would the point me? I'll probably never have my own tv show, I may never even have photographs hanging in a gallery. I may never publish a book, I may never even make Dean's list. But maybe these worries that keep me up at night... Maybe they help me. I know I'm stronger now then I was before I lived on my own. Sure, my mistakes have bigger consequences now that I'm an adult and an independent, but the pressure is what keeps me going. I work 40 hours a week, during the school year, and I somehow find time to sleep.
But, ultimately, I know I'm blessed.
So maybe I don't want the world to move beneath my feet. Maybe I want to change things on my own.

21. You go on a journey.
I've decided to go on a cross-country road trip, by myself.
It's a journey I must take, to get to know myself. I'll pack up my crappy Oldsmobile and I'll just drive. I'll play some of my favorite Sinatra and Cash songs. I'll stop and take pictures at whatever I find interesting. Old diners attached to rundown hotels. Things in the middle of the desert like 'The World's Largest Beer Can'. I want to take a trip by myself and for myself. Maybe it's what I need to find myself. To find yourself I strongly believe that you must get lost first. Do things differently then other people; wear what you want, even if it doesn't match.
I have a specific friend who has a changing skin. Not literally, more like figuratively. She changes her actions and her points of view depending on who she's around.
I have never been that kind of person.
I'm pretty sure I know what kind of person I am, but I always have doubts. I always have moments where I don't feel all that great about myself. Honestly, who doesn't, but I think a long journey by myself may really help me in many different ways. I've never been the kind of person who needed people around me to feel secure. I need my friends and my family, but I can be pretty happy when I'm alone. I also can be pretty low when I'm alone. But I can test just how much I need people. If I can go on such a trip by myself with no problem, perhaps I am really not as alone as I think.
I read once that, if you ever get lonely when you're alone, maybe you're in bad company.
How do you test the limits of yourself?
I know people who, if they had to take a road trip by themselves, they'd act like a chicken with their heads cut off. They'd have no idea what to do.
On my road trip, I take off from my apartment in Old Town and roll my windows down all the way. I play my favorite music. I do pretty much whatever I want until I get to California. I meet extremely interesting people along the way, I take some really unique photographs.
I realize things about myself that I never knew before.


22. A stranger comes to town.

I had always hoped for that ridiculous romance where a stranger comes into town.
I can't imagine being swept off my feet, because it's never really happened before. I'm probably single because I'm picky, but I'm picky because I've seen what happens to those who let them self get hurt.
I've held friends as they cried. I watched as my sister snuck out our bedroom window with a backpack full of clothes. She threw a letter down on the bed for my mother. Her friend was waiting down the road in his car to take her to her boyfriend's house.
"Don't tell Mom." She warned as she climbed out of the window.
I also watched as my mother found the letter and tore it up. She threw it in the woodstove and called the police.
I watched later as my sister was escorted home, at 16 years old, by a policeman. This happened a couple of times.
I watched as my father punched the wall, because my sister was 14 and got caught running around with an 18 year old trouble maker. My sister's response at his anger was to knock down a table with a lamp on it. I ran on the stairs and hid, as the screaming continued for hours.
My mother and my father used to fight far too often, and again I'd hide on the stairs and listen, wondering why anybody ever wanted to fall in love in the first place.
I can remember meeting my father's ex-wife, the mother of my half-sister. She was nice, but all I was thinking about was the fact that she cheated on my father, and I've never been able to like her.
To this day, my dad will call me upset, saying that Mom told him to leave. Again. She did this every once and a while. They were having money problems, and she was accusing him of going other places when he claimed he was at work.
I'm 19, and I've never had a boyfriend.
For a long time, I've blamed my looks. Why? I guess I figured if I was pretty, I'd have a boyfriend.
Had I ever even met anyone who was worth all this heartbreak that I've always been around? No. Maybe that's why I'm single.
I'm still waiting for that stranger. The one who better sweep me off my feet if he wants my attention.
Do I want to end up like one of my very good friends, the one who falls so quickly that she's been heartbroken more times then I can count on my two hands? No, I'd rather be single. What about my other friend who is 19, as been with her boyfriend for 4 years and says that they've fallen out of love? I really don't want that. I especially don't want to go through the things my sister went through. She had a boyfriend who was in the newspaper for killing a domestic cat, she had one who told her she wasn't 'the one' and dumped her, and a boyfriend who dumped her via facebook. I love my sister, but she's had a ridiculous amount of boyfriends, and that's far from what I want.
I just want one stranger. A stranger who moves into town, perhaps. One who can show me that maybe there is more then just heartbreak.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

Week Four Theme

 In Memory of Major Dennis Murray. 
 Semper Fi.

2007...
    “I’m so proud of you,” My mother said as she held me at arm’s length. I smiled and adjusted the cap on my head, “But I don’t think even I am as proud of you as your grandfather is.” My mom tilted her head towards Papa, who was standing alone near the Civil Air Patrol van. His hands were folded together on top of his cane and his face looked nostalgic as he watched the kids load boxes of wreaths onto the truck. He wore a tan hat on top of his bald head. He was once a young man in the Army, so seeing all of these young people in uniform had a visible affect on him.
    “I knew this was something he’d enjoy.” I smiled. My mother reached down and picked a piece of lint off of my camouflage uniform. The name on my uniform read 'BERGIN' and the other side read, 'UNITED STATES CIVIL AIR PATROL'.
    “You look beautiful.” My mother said quietly, her eyes that looked so much like mine sparkling. I replied with a small laugh. My father was standing behind her, looking happy and proud.
    “Cadets!” Major Murray yelled, standing in the middle of the Worcester Wreath’s factory parking lot, “Ten minutes to departure!”
    Major Murray looked extremely stern and strong as he stood there. He was wearing his blues uniform and tall combat boots tied tight. Since it was the middle of December, he was wearing a uniform-regulation coat over his blues. He had a smile under his white mustache. As a veteran Marine Corps officer, his mustache wasn’t technically regulation. When he was a young man fighting in Vietnam, he had an unfortunate encounter with an enemy’s bayonet. Major Murray’s face was etched with more wrinkles then a man as fairly young as him should have, but I saw them as symbols of his well-lived life.
    I looked back at my parents, who almost appeared to have tears in their eyes. I knew that this was as proud as they had ever been of me. I’ve never gotten honor roll like Cindy always did. I sat the bench through all the sports games while she got awards for being an outstanding athlete. But Cindy never did anything like this. She never spent a week on the road participating in the world’s largest memorial parade.
    I said goodbye to my mother and father and my Nana, Papa and Grandma.
    “Who loves you more then Papa?” My Papa asked me, as he always has and probably always will.
    “No one.” I said, smiling, knowing that that’s the response he wanted. If we weren’t in public, he’d probably grab my hand and make me dance with him like he would if we were in his kitchen.
    “I’m so proud of you, Stinky.” He said, smiling broadly, “Call me as often as you can. We’re watching the whole program on the television.”
    I smiled and knew that he and Nana would be watching the news avidly.
    I was headed to Arlington, Virginia. It was apart of a program called Wreaths Across America, and I was involved in the event because I was a cadet in the Civil Air Patrol. Staff Sergeant Bergin. It was the best week of my life thus far. We drove ten cadets and Major Murray in a crowded bus to Arlington National Cemetery. We were going to place Christmas wreaths on the graves of fallen soldiers. We were going to decorate an entire section of the hallowed cemetery. Along the way, we were stopping at cemeteries and memorials to celebrate soldiers all over the country.
    I scooped up my duffle bag and walked towards the gaggle of St. Croix squadron cadets that I was apart of. Halfway there, I stopped and turned around, waving and smiling to my family again. Cindy and Donny even looked proud of me. I saw the happiness in my Papa’s eyes and then again in my father’s. I knew for some profound reason that they were even more proud of me then anyone else.
    “Bye, Mom!” Felicia hollered and waved as she walked towards me with her duffle bag slung over her back. She turned and smiled broadly, “I can’t tell you how excited I am!”
    “I can’t believe it’s finally here,” I replied, “This trip takes so much planning. I’m excited but really nervous. I’ve never been away from home for a whole week… and entire seven days.”
    Felicia shrugged her bag off of her shoulder, “I’ve gone to summer camp so many times, for three to four weeks stretches. I’m used to it. I don’t really notice it anymore.”
    I shoved my duffle bag into the trunk of the van on top of the other cadet’s things. We were almost all loaded up. Three of the male cadets were playing hackie sack in front of the van. The other cadets were still saying goodbye to their parents and families.
    Once we were all gathered, we all said hi and expressed just how excited we were to all be going on this trip together.
    “ATTENTION!”
    As if it was imprinted in our reflexes, we all turned towards the voice. We stood with our fists at our sides, our back and legs straight, our heels together and toes apart. Our chins were held parallel to the ground and our eyes were focused on nothing. Straight forward and strong.
    Major Murray smiled as he stood in front of us and crossed his arms, “I hope that you’re all ready to go. If you forgot something or need something, tough. We’re leaving in two minutes. I’m getting in the van and waiting for two minutes, and who ever isn’t in the van, stays here.” He uncrossed his arms and walked towards the van’s driver’s side door, “As you were.”
    Almost instantly, we all went back to what we were doing. Everyone got their things packed and their goodbyes were said. And within the allotted time, we were all sitting in the van and ready to go.
    “All the same rules apply at the armory that apply here.” Major Murray boomed as we all got in, “The six inch rule… Don’t touch anybody. Abide by all of your uniform regulations. You know what they all are. And act appropriately in public - remember that you represent the Civil Air Patrol wherever you go.”
    This was a speech that we heard on every trip we went on as a squadron. We had also heard everything we needed to hear at the weekly meetings for months now. This trip took extensive planning. We had planned it all year.
    We didn’t need Major Murray to tell us to buckle up; we knew we had to and just did. “Click!” We all said as we buckled up, and once we were all buckled up, Major Murray followed the motorcade headed towards Arlington.
    The motorcade consisted of police escorts, six 18-wheeler trucks full of Worcester Christmas wreaths, cars of the Worcester family and friends, and all of the Civil Air Patrol vans from every squadron in the state.
    I watched as the Worcester Wreath Factory disappeared in the distance. Even though we spent the whole day in the cold decorating those wreaths, I was sad to leave the factory.
    The happiness that I felt at that moment was so extremely profound that it almost brought tears to my eyes. I looked around the van at all of my friends and fellow cadets. These people had begun something of a family for me. We were all young and sometimes too silly for Major Murray’s liking. He was our herder and our leader, and he was proud to say that even when we were acting less then mature. He was a man with great intelligence, honor and pride… but he had one of the best senses of humor I’ve ever encountered.
    We were spending a week together on the road, doing something that was so meaningful and special to innumerable people. I truly felt like I was doing something that really mattered. I knew that this trip was something that would change the way I saw things and lived my life, from here on out.
    I realized then that Papa wasn’t the one who was the proudest of me. Dad wasn’t either.
    I was the person who was most proud of me.

A week later...

    We arrived at the cemetery at five in the morning. We were all tired, but our eyes were bright with excitement. The number of people at the beautiful and hallowed Arlington National Cemetery that morning was astounding. Not as astounding as the pure white stones against the green was. Thousands of people were there, scooping up wreaths and laying them on graves. My job was to distribute wreaths and lead crowds. At one point, I got distracted by how breathtaking this place was and wandered off. I was admiring the trees and praying, kissing my hand and placing it on every white stone I passed. Thanking them for their selfless service. I was gone for fifteen minutes before I heard Major Murray calling my name. I hadn’t even realized that I was wandering.
    I returned to my duties and assisted the other cadets. It wasn’t as cold in Virginia as it was in Maine, but it was still pretty brisk out. I was tired and it was far too crowded, but I was so extremely happy to be here that I didn’t care. It was the most breath taking sight I have ever seen. As far as the eye could see there were white stones. It was beautiful, sad and eerie. It’s a sight I could never forget, even if I wanted to. I can distinctly remember fighting my overwhelming emotions as I found the newest section of the cemetery. It was the burial place for soldiers who fought in Iraq. There were over a dozen graves that were so visibly fresh that it made me wonder if I had missed one of their funerals by only a day.
    Hundreds of people were there to help. Many were there to honor the graves of their fallen loved ones. Some were there because they thought they’d be on TV. Plenty were there to try and snatch a free wreath or two. Even more were there because they ‘wanted to be apart of something bigger then themselves’.
    The people who really pissed me off were the ones who got too tired and sat down on a headstone. They sat down on the resting place of a soldier who made the ultimate sacrifice for the rights of people they had never met. Those people didn’t piss me off half as much as the people who stuffed their pockets full of bows from the wreaths or walked off hiding a wreath under their jackets.
    As a cadet, we were allotted to lay two Christmas wreaths. But only after our job was done for the day. The section of the cemetery was beautiful decorated with thousands of red wreaths. Most of the people had left  and there weren’t many graves without wreaths, which made it hard to find one to decorate. The headstones with a Star of David on it, symbolizing that this soldier was Jewish, was decorated with a pebble laid on the top of the stone.
    Another cadet and I both had two wreaths and were looking for a grave to honor. We walked by a heartbreaking amount of graves that read, ‘MIA’ or ‘POW’. An astounding number of headstones had no names at all; just dates showing that the man who laid there was very young when he died. The other cadet and I walked along in honorable silence.
    Finally, we both were able to find undecorated stones. Ted Fullerton was the first soldier who I honored. He died when he was 38, and he fought in the Vietnam and Korean war. I took a step back, placed the wreath appropriately, stood up tall and saluted. The other cadet took a picture of me with my camera as I did this, and I took his when he did it. Once we decorated the wreaths and thanked them in our own way, we walked back to the group together. We didn’t say anything. The cold wind accompanied us as we walked. I’m not sure why we were both so quiet. Maybe we both felt that the people who were buried here deserved the utmost respect, for they were the true heroes and the true reason why we were here. Wreaths Across America was Mr. Worcerster’s idea, and he was a hero in his own right, but the people who rested here were who I was thanking that day.
    Once we got back to the group, Major Murray was standing silently, admiring the white, red and green horizon. The sun was beginning to set behind the long and winding limbs of the leafless trees. Major Murray stood tall, his dress uniform looking as sharp as I had ever seen it. His blue eyes were swimming with emotions; his arms, as usual, were crossed. I stood with him for a moment, wondering what he was feeling.
    After a few minutes, he realized I was standing there. He turned to me and smiled slightly, “Bergin. How goes it?”
     “Pretty well, sir. I laid two wreaths.”
    He nodded, “Good, good.” He paused for a moment and pointed at my camera, “Do you think you could email me pictures from today? I’d really like to use them.”
    I smiled, “Of course, sir. I’ll make sure to do that.”
    He smiled back and put his hand on my shoulder, “How have you enjoyed your first Wreaths Across America trip?”
    I cleared my throat, “It’s amazing.” I said quietly.
    He studied my face before replying, “It really is.”
    He and I stood there for a while. I didn’t know what he was thinking about. Maybe he was thinking about the friends he could have buried here. Maybe he was thinking about the long drive home from here. Maybe he was just tired or hungry.
    I was thinking about the week I had just lived. How many times I had heard the beautiful and haunting taps played on a trumpet; I’ll never know. How many memorials and cemeteries I had visited that week? I’ll never be able to count. I was thinking about the old man in a wheel chair who we visited in the veteran retirement home. He cried hysterically when he was presented with a Christmas wreath by one of the other cadets. I thought about the groups of  mothers of fallen soldiers who had told their stories. My mind passed the group of women who spoke at an event we went to. They were widows to men who gave their life for their country. I was thinking about our visit to the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier here in Arlington, and how majestic of a ceremony that was. I thought about all of those nameless soldiers who were lost. What an honor, to even be in the presence of such a meaningful thing. And about the children that we visited in the elementary school, the ones who thought that my fellow cadets and I were soldiers because we wore uniforms, when really we weren’t much older then them. To this day, the number of 'MIA' headstones I saw at Arlington National Cemetery haunt me. I thought about how many people I had honored this week, ones who had a voice and ones who didn‘t. Maybe I even honored Major Murray.
    I looked up at Major Murray, who seemed to have a single tear in his eye. But when he blinked it was gone. I’ll never know if it was really there, it could’ve been just my imagination. But I’ll never forget how proud he seemed of the St. Croix squadron on that day. A week of being crowded on a bus and too few showers lead up to a day that was worth it all. We had slept on floors in high school classrooms, dusty old armories and hotels that were in the wrong parts of town… But I certainly wasn’t complaining when I first laid my eyes on the cemetery as the sun rose behind it.
    I knew Major Murray for about three years, and he never ceased to amaze me. He could be the most strict man in the world and still crack a joke. He carried our squadron on his shoulders, and sometimes he'd get stressed out and tell Felicia and I about his problems. We'd always listen; we'd give very little feedback. Major Murray was almost always talking. He always had a joke to tell, a story to share or a direction to give. But this was the most silent I had seen him.
    I can remember the last thought I had before the group started to pack up and leave. I was thinking about Major Murray, and about how deep of an affect he had had on me.



2009...

    My father and I walked into the church without saying a word. I was wearing black. He was dressed in a suit and hadn’t said a word since we drove into town. I knew he probably had something to say; he probably just didn’t know how to say it. I had lots I wanted to say. In fact, I wanted to scream. But I couldn't find my voice.
    The church was full of people. It was overflowing with people. Even though the reason why everyone was there was bleak, there were bright flowers everywhere.
    Near the podium of the church, a large picture hung. It was of a jolly face that meant something to everyone in the room. Large blue eyes, a bushy white mustache and a bright, cheeky smile. I’d recognize Major Murray’s face anywhere. In the picture he wore a hat. He always wore a hat.
    Over a dozen of the people at the funeral were wearing uniforms. Some of them were cadets of Major Murray’s like I was. Many of them were men who also were veterans who knew Major Murray.
    Near the second doorway of the church stood a boy who was once a cadet with me. His eyes were bloodshot and red, his face was tired and sullen. I put my hand on his shoulder and didn’t say a word. This particular boy had been dealt a rotten hand in life. His only secure father figure was Major Murray.
    I found Felicia and we hugged without saying a word. Neither one of us could say anything. Both of us were mad. We were mad that he was gone. I was mad that someone so good could be taken.
    In the front pew of the church, I saw Captain Murray. Captain Murray was Major Murray’s wife, and she was also involved in the squadron. She had her hands folded in her lap, her face was dark. I could only imagine how she felt at that moment.
    My father and I found seats and waited for the ceremony to begin.
    The priest spoke briefly about how he only knew Major Murray briefly before he passed, but he knew how much he meant to everyone in our small community. He was not only the squadron leader, but he was a baseball and basketball coach. He also had grandchildren who loved him dearly. He was very involved in the community, which made many people come to adore him.
    His daughter came up to the podium to speak. She looked lovely but sad. Even though she must’ve been overwhelmed with emotion, she was able to deliver a wonderful speech.
    “My father lived life unlike anybody else. He was never okay with doing less then his best. He always wanted me to do my best. I knew he wouldn’t settle for anything less. He was a very serious man, but he could laugh harder then anybody.
    As most of you know, this funeral was postponed because I was states away and very pregnant and couldn’t fly. So I thank you for your patience. I wished my father could’ve met his new grandson, but I believe that Dad will always be with my son and I. Dad, I want you to know that you’re not as sneaky as you think. I know you’re here right now. I can tell when you’re around. You’ve never been subtle. I can remember being a kid and him trying to sneak up on me and scare me - you might’ve well as been a tap dancer trying to sneak into a silent movie.” The crowd laughed. She paused and smiled, “But I can tell that he’s been with me for a while. A week ago, I was outside getting into my car. My car was covered in butterflies. Butterflies of every color and kind. They looked beautiful. It was the craziest thing. I had never seen so many of them! But then one monarch butterfly flew up and landed on my shoulder. I always remembered how pretty you thought those butterflies were, Dad. Every spring when they would come out of hiding, you’d love to sit on your porch and watch them as they fly. I knew that that was you protecting me that day, Dad. I thank you for that, just as I thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me.
    My father put his heart and his soul into everything he did. Raising my siblings and I, running Civil Air Patrol and coaching the kids at school. Even when you went fishing, you wouldn’t just go for a couple of hours, it was always an every day event for you. You were never bored, Dad. You were the busiest person I’ve ever met. I’m also constantly on my feet, and I know I get that from you. Everything you ever taught me, I’m going to teach my first son. I knew how badly you wanted to meet him. He’d love you, I bet somehow he already does.
    But that’s all I really wanted to say, Dad. I love you. I miss you. I know you’re here now, thinking that I talk too much and that I’m too sappy. Not as many people knew your soft side like I did.
    I know you’re in heaven, and I know you’re in a better place. You’re not in pain anymore, and for that I’m glad. As selfish as it is to say that I want you here physically, I’m overwhelmed with joy that you’re here at least spiritually. I’ll see you again someday, but until then, I’ll talk to you every day.”
    When she stepped down from the podium, she looked strong. She knew that Major Murray was here with us that day. She was stronger then me. The tears were falling from my face in buckets. My dad didn’t know what to do, so he just comforted me. I wanted to be anywhere else. I wanted this all to be a sick joke.
    Major Murray’s ashes were placed in a local cemetery. Some, but not all, of the people from the ceremony followed the Murray family to the place where he was laid to rest. It was raining lightly, and my shoes were sticking to the mud as I walked with my father towards where he was being placed.
    I joined the rest of Major Murray’s former cadets. None of us said a word. We all dealt with this in our own private ways. As different as we all were, we all lost something. A mentor, a friend, a leader. The rain tapped on my head, but I didn’t care. I spent a good amount of time straightening my thick hair for today, but it didn’t matter to me that it was ruined. What mattered was the amazing person that was laid to rest. My thoughts were with him and his grieving family.
    Once the burial was over, I hugged my fellow cadets and shared words with them. I left them to say goodbye to Captain Murray.
    Behind her glasses, her brown eyes were small and puffy. She smiled as she saw me.
    “Hi, ma’am.” I said quietly and hugged her, “I miss him terribly.”
    She looked up at me, “I never told you, but you meant a great deal to my husband. Whenever he graded the squadron’s tests, he always wanted to grade yours first. He thought very highly of you, and I wanted you to know that.”
    I felt as if I had been kicked in the gut. I hadn’t seen Major Murray months before he passed. I'll never forget the last time I did see him.


"Well, howdy, stranger." Major Murray said, placing his items on my conveyer belt at the grocery store I worked at.                                                                                                                  
"Major Murray!" I remember crying happily. He was thinner and tanner then I had seen him. It was after he had the first heart attack and he was trying to clean up. He was purchasing some live bait and a Diet Pepsi. I'm not sure he drank anything other then Diet Pepsi. "You look great!" 
"Thanks," He said brightly, smiled, "I've been working hard to get healthier." 
"I miss everyone." 
He smiled faintly and nodded, "I do too. But I just couldn't do it anymore." 
I nodded, "I know, sir. I understand." 
He paid for his items and I put them in a plastic bag for him. 
"Thanks, Bergin." He said happily, "I'll see you around." 
"Bye, sir. Have fun fishing!" 
He smiled and waved to me as he left, looking so incredibly happy.


The squadron broke up after Major Murray had a bad heart attack. He was running it all practically alone, and the stress was killing him. He lost weight, he quit smoking, the squadron broke up, he eliminated all stress. But it didn’t matter, because not too long after the squadron broke up, he had the second heart attack that eventually killed him. I never visited him in the hospital once. He was there for weeks.
    A lump formed in my throat instantly. It took me a while to form a response, “That means a lot to me, ma’am.”
    She nodded and said goodbye, leaving me to stand there alone. I watched as she left and wished for time back. Why didn’t I go visit him? Why didn’t we try harder to keep the squadron together? Why did it get like this? Tears were falling from my face. I stood alone until my father came up behind me.
    “Let’s go home.” He said quietly, and I nodded. I turned and looked back at Major Murray’s grave. No number of words could express the feelings I felt as I saw that his grave was soon going to be left alone. How do I say goodbye appropriately?
    I took a few steps closer to his grave and smiled. I decided to say goodbye to him the most respectful way I knew.
    Goodbye, sir. I hope you're reunited with the friends you lost. 
    I miss you.
    I lifted up my left hand and saluted him, just like he taught me to, hoping that he was at peace wherever he was.

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Week Four Prompts

14. Wishing? Lying? Dreaming? Dancing? Boxing? Cooking? What is writing like for you?

Sometimes writing makes my fingers sore. Sometimes it makes my head hurt. Sometimes I want to start in the middle of my piece instead of the end. It can be tedious. It can take forever to come up with something even remotely good. Sometimes, scenes in life make me want to sit down and write. When I'm walking on the ocean shore, I want to sit down, slip of my shoes, and write. Small, seaside towns with old, salt-stained buildings and cobblestone sidewalks make the writer inside of me get pretty anxious. I like to think about stories while I walk. Writing is something I do to feel better, or to even feel worse. I've heard that the mind of a writer is a dangerous place. Writers spend so much time in their heads, chewing over ideas and getting lost in their own creation. Writing sometimes is like pulling teeth for me; I could stare at the screen and not even touch my keyboard. Sometimes, my writing is like a pricked finger; once I start, I just can't stop. Writing is something I sometimes must do. Sometimes I don't need it. It helps me through hard times, and even good. I tend to crave writing. It's a passion. Writing is something that is incredibly personal; it's like dipping into someone's brain. My deepest of feelings and thoughts can be found in my writing. To me, it's not really a thing. It's a piece of me. A hobby, a possible career path, a necessity.

15. You have a friend, lover, s.o., parent, whomever--and you have a magic potion. Once they take it they will tell you the absolute truth for one minute. Who do you give it to and what do they say?




Can I give it to someone I am destined to meet? The people who I have in my life now are pretty truthful to me, which is why they're in my life. I know my parents love me, I know my siblings do, I know my friends at least put up with me. They're always present, in all my plans and all my dreams. Maybe I could use the potion on a person in my future who leaves me with questions. Maybe I could use it on a soul mate who I don't know yet. Perhaps I'd only want to hear the truth if it's good. I'd rather tell a lie that brings a smile then a truth that brings a tear. What if I slipped my friend the potion and she said, 'I've always thought that you could afford to lose about 10 pounds'? That would do me no good to hear. There's a reason why the truth isn't always displayed. I don't go around wearing a post-it stamp on my forehead that says, 'I daydream too much, I have low self-esteem problems and I have poor social skills'. These things are the truth but I don't tell this to everybody that I meet. I'd want to know certain truths from this person who I have not met yet. Because I may not be confident in much, but I am confident that the people in my life love me. Most of them. The ones that I know will be there forever. So, maybe I choose to give the potion to my future husband the day I am on my deathbed or the day he is on his. Assuming I get married. It could be closure. It could tie up loose ends that were always there. It could be a way for me to understand things that I always questioned. I'd tuck the potion away for years and years, and save it for learning a truth that is so extremely profound. The truth is a dangerous thing. So maybe I could use it to help another person; slip it to a murderer who refuses to confess. Maybe I could use it on my high school basketball coach - the one who targeted me every day and caused me to purposely flunk a class in order to get kicked off the team. Why did he hate me so much? No, I wouldn't want to waste it on him. I could use it on my mother, maybe to ask why I we have such a poor relationship with my half-sister who lives states away. What happened while we were kids that caused us to be almost strangers? I could use it on the government, to uncover secrets we all know are there. Where do they keep the locked-up aliens? Is Osama Bin Laden really dead? Where is all our money going?
Or, perhaps I could sell it for a hefty sum. I'd buy myself a nice used car, pay for my college education, go on a trip with my friends and family, and give the rest back to the world. With a potion this dangerous, exciting and tempting, I would find plenty of buyers. I'd never want all the pressure of deciding who I'd use it on.

16. Somebody just offered me the chance to get paid for gassing on about one of my favorite topics: dogs. What would you like to be paid to talk about?

Initially, I'd say myself, but not in a egocentric kind of way. I have more layers then an onion and I go through more phases then the moon. I'm too fickle to talk on one topic for too long, and I have so many interests that I know I could talk to almost anybody.
The world has so many wonders and mysteries, I'd probably talk about the world. The dreams I have of the world, the things I want to see in the world, the reasons why the world also scares me. I'd talk about photography and how it makes me feel so warm and fuzzy inside. I'd tell jokes and stories. I'd like to talk about some books I've read, some music I've listened to, a person who has inspired me lately. I'd talk about how I hate mushrooms. I'd tell my Creepy Leg Theory; anything with too many or too little legs creeps me out. See here: snakes, octopus, spiders, eels, centipedes, etc. I'd talk about the way the trees in my favorite forest look; the tattoos I want before I die. I'd talk about my family and my friends, because who would I be without them? I guess I'd just really like to be paid to talk, because I certainly enjoy talking. I also really enjoy listening. I'd get paid to talk and listen. As precious as I know money is these days, I'd do a lot of talking to earn that money. And getting paid to do something I enjoy so much? It's hardly work at all. My grandfather always said that if you enjoy your job, you never truly work a day in your life. I'd love to get paid to talk. Can you imagine getting paid to dream? When I talk I dream. I go on about things I wish were true, things I know are and things I don't. I take a topic and I run with it, until I've bored myself with it. I then do it all over again, until I'm too tired to talk.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

Week Three Prompts ; the one I didn't finish!

2. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just watch. What's going on? Set that scene.


"I'm done with him," The girl said, waving her hands dismissively, "He's done using me."
"Good for you, Amy!" Her friend said, patting her on the leg, "It's about time. Did you kick him out?"
Amy smiled, "I changed all the locks. I put all his shit in bags and tossed them in the garage. He's out."
"What about your car?" The friend asked, sipping her coffee, "Didn't you give it to him?"
Amy ran a hand through her long, brown hair, "It's not like I signed him over the papers or anything. I just lent it to him. I stole the keys out of his pocket while he was sleeping."
"Wow," Her friend replied, "You're gutsy. Do you think you'll get back together?"
Amy made a face, "You know what they say. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice..." Amy didn't finish, "You know the rest. I ain't putting myself in that situation again. I'm 37 years old and I need to find a real man."
The diner was crowded that day. Amy and her friend were sitting together at a small table. Each one had a coffee and a slice of pie.
"Have you talked to him?" The friend asked, taking her fork to the pie.
"Nope," Amy said bluntly, "He doesn't have a cell phone. How could I talk to him even if I wanted to? I haven't seen him in days."
"What will he do? Go back to Connecticut?"
"You know, I don't know and I don't care."
The friend made a face at Amy's response. She started to say something but closed her mouth. Amy noticed this and narrowed eyes, "Do you have something you want to say?"
The friend pursed her lips, "This time you should be... positive about it. Like, don't give him another chance. Make it a clean break. I know you have a hard time doing that."
Amy sighed loudly, "I know I've had problems with it... but I know I deserve better then how he's treating me! He uses my car, my house, and even me. He puts gas in my car but doesn't pay rent. He's sending money to some girl back in Connecticut. I let him live with me and didn't ask for a single dime. It's over."
The friend took another sip of her coffee, seemingly to pause her comment even longer. She pushed some of her short blonde hair behind her ear, "Do you still love him?"
Amy drew back at the question; she clearly wasn't expecting it and didn't know what to say, "Of course I do. I probably always will care about him. But he can't live with me and say he 'doesn't want a relationship'. I'm obviously emotionally attached to him, but he keeps stringing me along. Or maybe I'm doing this to myself. Either way, this is a new start for me. I've gone through so many jerks in the past few years that I have go to find a nice guy or else I'm gunna go crazy."
The friend nodded, "That's what you deserve."
After that, they went back to normal conversation. Amy self-consciously kept checking her phone, as if she was expecting a phone call from somebody. Then, Amy's phone did ring, and she put a finger up and answered it.
The friend watched as Amy walked outside with her phone attached to her ear. She sighed as if to say, 'Maybe it isn't a clean break at all'.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Week Three Theme: A Wise Old Man

Tired and probably smelly, I climbed onto the last plane of my journey to Houston, Texas. I was with my mother and my sister, and we were all exhausted from the trip. We had gotten on three different planes today, starting in Manchester, New Hampshire. It was almost midnight, and all I wanted to do was sleep. This plane was so crowded, I actually was worried about the weight limit. 
The flight attendant motioned for us to follow her. She led my mother to a seat near the back of the plane. 
"Um, is there any way the three of us could sit together?" My mother asked, pointing to my sister and I, "These are my daughters." 
The woman laughed and shook her head, "No, ma'am. This flight is booked full. You'll have to sit wherever you can find." 
We all agreed and were sat in three very different parts of the plane. I was sat next to a man who was much older then me. He was wearing very simple clothing and his hat was sitting in his lap. He was holding his hands in his lap and looked out the window; not as if he was looking for something, just as if he was taking everything in. Across the aisle from me was a handsome younger man dressed in an expensive suit. He had an expensive phone pressed to his ear and a laptop sat on his knees. 
I thought this was going to be a really boring 3 hour flight. The attendant asked the passengers to to turn off all electronic devices during the take off. The old man next to me didn't flinch. He clearly didn't have any devices to turn off. The young man on the other side of me groaned in frustration while he put away his laptop and turned off his cell phone. I turned off my cell phone and stuffed my iPod in my pocket. But once the take off was clear, I planned on stuffing my ear buds into my ears and sleeping until we landed in Houston. 
Once the take off was clear, I was about to start listening to my music when I heard a voice pipe in at my right. 
"Hello there." I heard a very soft, quiet voice say. "How are you?" 
I turned my head. The old man had very large, very kind eyes that were shielded behind old wire-framed glasses. He was smiling a happy grin. His face was etched with decades of lines. His clothes were old and tattered; he smelt of peppermint.
"I'm pretty good," I replied, feeling a bit uncomfortable at the random greeting, "Thank you for asking. How are you?" 
He shrugged, "I'm okay. Where are you from?" 
"I'm from Maine," I replied, "A tiny town with less then 200 people in it." 
"Maine is a beautiful place," He said, "I never spent much time there, but I was there a couple of times. I remember flying over it and seeing what seemed like millions of endless trees. So green and rustic. It's remarkable. I grew up in Massachusetts, a small town that you've probably never heard of. Lived there my whole life and then raised my kids there." He stopped and paused, "You're pretty far away from home. What brings you to Houston?"
"I'm going to a rodeo with my mom and sister," I replied, getting giddy at just mentioning it, "We're staying with a family friend."
He nodded, "Well that sounds like a great time! I'm happy you're on this trip for something fun. I'm going to see my sister, she lives about two hours north of Houston." 
"Oh, really?" I started, "Well that sounds like a nice time as well." 
He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes, "Well, not really, dear. I got a frantic call earlier from my sister's husband... She's not doing well. In fact, they don't think she has much time left at all. So I packed a bag and hopped on a plane." 
I didn't really know what to say. I waited a moment to reply, "I'm really sorry... that's too bad... I hope she gets better." 
He looked at me and half-smiled, "That's really nice of you to say. But I'm not sure that she will be." 
I bit my lip and waited for him to say something. I was trying so hard not to say the wrong thing.
"After a while you get used to it," He continued, "I've lost a lot of people who mean a lot to me. Obviously my parents passed away a long time ago. And especially in the service... I lost a lot of friends there." 
"Oh, you were in the service?" I said, trying to change the subject, "I have a lot of respect for people in the service. I was involved in some cadet training for a couple of years." 
He chuckled, "I fought in World War II, the Vietnam War and the Korean War. And I'll tell ya', being in battle is unlike anything else." 
"That's really amazing," I said brightly, "That you've been in all those wars." 
"It's not amazing," He said, "I've seen far too many people die." 
I wanted to kick myself. Why do I keep saying the wrong things? He looked at me with emotion in his eyes. "I fear that I may see another death too soon." 
"I really hope not," I replied after a pause, "I'll pray for your sister." 
The man smiled and patted my hand, "Thanks, dear. I really appreciate it. My sister is really the only family I have left. My wife passed years ago. I've outlived them all. All seven of my siblings. I was the baby of the family. Always causing trouble, everywhere I went. Hell, sometimes I forget how old I am." He furrowed his brow and looked pensive. He seemed like he was trying to figure it out in his head but waved his hand dismissively.
"I bet you've seen a lot through your life, though." I added, trying to be positive. 
"Yes, I suppose I have," He started, "But home will always be the most important place. Don't forget that. I married my wife straight out of high school, she was my sweetheart. We had six children and eighteen grandchildren. I have three great grandchildren. All of my kids are college-educated and successful. I've lived a pretty full and busy life, I have no complaints." 
I looked at the old man and smiled at how content he seemed. You could tell he didn't need much in life, he just got by how he did. 
"You learn, as time goes on, that aging really isn't a curse. You young folk do everything you can to slow it down. Embrace it! My wrinkles are a sign of just how hard I've worked. Don't ever think that there's something wrong with being old, because there isn't. I'd never change a thing." 
I nodded, and completely agreed with him. I've always thought that age was profound and graceful... Youth was clumsy and usually you got by on luck. 
"You know, you're a great listener." He continued, "You're like my sister in that way. If you want me to shut up, just let me know, okay?" 
I laughed a little, "Oh, no, not at all. I really enjoy listening." 
He grinned, "That's a nice quality. Too many young people are always just yacking away. Talk talk talk, on your cell phones and your computers." Discreetly, the man pointed across the aisle at the young business man who was still tip-tapping away on his laptop, "That's no way to live. He doesn't see how much he's missing. Look out our window. We're flying over a big city! The lights are beautiful and the sky is lit up. That man's missing out on quite a view." 
I observed the man across the aisle. He was clearly working on something and was very engaged in it. A flight attendant stopped and quietly asked him to put his laptop away as we went through some turbulence. He scoffed and showed attitude as he did as the woman asked. 
"So disrespectful," The old man said, observing the man's behavior, "Work can always wait. Remember that. Don't work your life away. My father always told me that, hard work was always important, but life was even more important." 
As the flight went on, the old man told me his entire life story, from beginning to end. I didn't say much, I mainly nodded and asked small questions. I was so fascinated by his story, that when the plane landed, I was almost disappointed that I couldn't listen longer. 
Once the plane skidded to a stop, the passengers all stood up and started rifling through their above-head compartments. He pulled out a ratty old duffle bag saying, "This is all I got." 
He got off the plane before I did, and he waved to me as he left. 
"Thanks for being such a great listener!" He called as he walked up the aisle to the exit. 
"Thank you!" I answered brightly, "I hope everything turns out okay!" 
He smiled and gave me a thumbs up. 
Once he was gone, I met up with my mother and my sister and we headed for the exit. As we exited the plane, they both said that they simply slept through that whole flight. 
"I was going to sleep," I said, smiling, "But I sat next to a wise old man who told me his life story." 

Journal Entry Two: A Soldier's Poem

He takes out some ink...
And he gets time to think...
He waits to be alone...
He decides to write home.

He writes about his life,
He writes to his dear wife.
His dream is to come home from no-man's-land,
His dream is to leave the blood-stained sand.

The woman who holds his heart,
And takes loving him as a fine-art.
The woman with his baby,
He'll see her, maybe, just maybe...

He wants to sleep in his own bed,
He wants to be home, he has said...
But his ink won't erase,
And he can't leave his army base.

Even though me might die tomorrow,
Most of us surpass the sorrow.
Think about his dear-old pop,
Whose worried about his boy, non stop.

Think about his weeping wife,
Who's husband might just lose his life.
Think about his crying baby,
Who might never meet a father, maybe, just maybe.

That soilder is fighting for us all.
Every single one of us, big tall, little small.
So keep him in your prayers every night,
Pray for him with all your might.

For he could lose his life today,
And all we can do is pray.
He's seen so many die,
And it's almost like I can hear him cry.

Think of him when you think you've got it bad.
Think of just, that young lad.
He's the voice to those, who cannot speak,
He's the hero for those who cannot seek.

For he's seen his best friend die,
He's heard his wingman's last cry.
Your best friend is next to you,
His best friend is dead, and there's nothing he could do.

He hasn't seen his family,
We see ours every day, you and me.  
So he sends his letter home from Iraq,
And he tells them not to write back.

He can't bear to hear their reply,
Because he's not coming home, and he doesn't know why.

Week Three Prompts

9. Writers have to listen to themselves; writers ought to always be talking to themselves. Try a conversation between you and yourself. Sometimes arguments are fun.


"You know, you don't take enough chances." I told myself, as I looked into the mirror at my boring hair color.
"How so?" I asked, pushing some of my hair behind my ear. A nervous habit. 
"I know for a fact you've always wanted to dye your hair purple." 
I furrowed my brow, "I could never do that. I wouldn't be able to find a job. My parents would murder me." 
"So?" I shrugged, "You're almost 20. You can legally do whatever you want." 
"No one can ever really do whatever they want. Do you know how selfish that is?" 
"How is that selfish at all?" I replied with a challenging tone. 
"I also want a lip piercing or an eyebrow piercing. If I were to do that, i'd personally insult my grandparents. They'd be hurt. It'd be as if I'd betrayed them." 
"If you want to do it, do it." 
"I can't possibly be that selfish. I can't only think of myself that way." 
I stared at myself, the haze from my mother's cigarette traveled behind me in the mirror. The smell burnt my nostrils; I could tell I'd smell like it later, and that bothered me. 
Could she hear me talking to myself? 
"Maybe you should be selfish more often. What do you ever do that's selfish?" 
"Selfishness isn't a redeeming quality." I replied hotly, "I know selfish people. I don't like them."
"It's not like you like yourself all hat much either." I said, deliberately stretching out my words. 
I crossed my arms, "What's that supposed to mean?" 
"If you liked yourself more, you'd act differently. Why do you care so much what your grandparents think? Or your parents?" 
"Because they're my family," I replied angrily, "My family." 
"So? Your mother smokes all the time and you hate that. You have to constantly worry about your hair smelling like smoke when you're around her. Don't you hate that?" 
"Yes, I don't like that. She knows that though." I replied quietly. 
"And yet she still does it. Even though she knows you don't like it." 
I hated the fact that I was right. Why did it matter? I can go through life without my eyebrow pierced. I don't need purple hair. But what bothered me was that maybe I really didn't take enough chances. Chances that meant more then unnatural hair color or holes in my face. 
"Look at you." I continued with a cold, hard tone, "You've got your nose pierced as if you honestly don't care about what anyone thinks. You care a lot more then you know. Do something honestly reckless for once." 
I clenched my fists, my heart beating faster, "Mistakes like that aren't cute anymore. I'm an adult. I have too much hanging over my head to go out and act like an idiot all the time. I wanna be a teacher. If I act like an idiot and get into trouble, that'll affect my chances of getting a job later in life. I don't want that." 
I half-smiled, "Things might turn out perfectly fine. Have you ever considered that?" 
I looked behind me again at my mother. She hadn't moved from her computer game. Obviously she can't hear me talking to myself. 
"I'm not arrogant enough to believe that for some strange reason I'd be lucky. I'm not a lucky person. Things almost never go according to plan for me." 
"Maybe things aren't supposed to go according to plan. Plans are made to be broken." 
I rolled my eyes. This was going nowhere. I wish I could just agree to disagree, but I was being tugged in so many directions that I didn't know what I should settle on. 
I narrowed my eyes and pointed at myself, "You're a coward." 
I drew back as if I had been slapped, "A coward? How can you possibly say that? You don't know me." 
I raised my eyebrows and got closer, smiling very slowly, "I don't?" 
Suddenly, I realized what just happened. I stepped away from the mirror and ran outside, kicking my shoes off as I left. I bolted out the door and went for a run through the woods, replaying the realization in my mind. 


10. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just listen. Can you pick out conversations? Write down a little of what you hear, maybe as dialog (he said--,she said--)



"Why am I even here?" The woman asked her friend. The hallway was busy and crowded, but these two stood still as the people passed them from either sides, "I don't want an education. I don't want to go to school." 
"Don't you want a career?" The friend replied. 
"I have money. I've got plenty of money. I don't need to be here. So why am I here?' 
The friend awkwardly shifted her weight from one foot to the other, "Because you want to meet new people?" 
"No again," The woman replied sternly, "I have plenty of people in my life that I care about. I don't want to sit in classrooms with all these young kids with popped-up collars and annoying attitudes." The woman eyeballed a kid who fit the description of who she just described.
The friend didn't say anything. She seemed to realize that all the woman wanted was an ear to listen. 
"I'm here because it's what's socially acceptable. It's what people expect from me. All I really want to do is be home with my children and my husband, spending time with them. But I'm here, wasting hundreds of dollars on books and tuition, when all I want to do is be a stay at home mom. Fifty years ago, it was unheard of for a woman to go to college. Especially a mother and a wife. This is what society has come to." 
The friend shrugged, "Why did you come to school, then, if that's how you feel?" 
"Because I have so many outside forces telling me that it's what I should do. My father tells me he wished I would've done it before having children. My mother tells me that she wishes I was more like my sister; the dental hygienist. Most of my friends are college-educated people who tell me I don't know what I'm missing." 
The friend didn't say anything, she just nodded as the woman continued. 
"So here I am. Wasting money that I could spend on something I care about. It's infuriating. I'm too old to be here; I'm too stubborn to sit in a classroom when there are a million different places I'd rather be. I don't think school is for everyone. It's not for me. I know I'm a good mom, and that's all I want to do with my life. This place isn't for me." 
The woman sighed and took out her cell phone to check the time. "Well, I've got to go to class now. A class that I don't care about to go towards a degree I don't care about. Sorry for ranting your ear off." 
"It's okay," The friend laughed, "My ears are free to rant off anytime." 




2. Go to a crowded public place (not one of your classrooms, though) and be a fly on the wall. Just watch. What's going on? Set that scene.


"I'm done with him," The girl said, waving her hands dismissively, "He's done using me."
"Good for you, Amy!" Her friend said, patting her on the leg, "It's about time. Did you kick him out?"
Amy smiled, "I changed all the locks. I put all his shit in bags and tossed them in the garage. He's out."
"What about your car?" The friend asked, sipping her coffee, "Didn't you give it to him?"
Amy ran a hand through her long, brown hair, "It's not like I signed him over the papers or anything. I just lent it to him. I stole the keys out of his pocket while he was sleeping."
"Wow," Her friend replied, "You're gutsy. Do you think you'll get back together?"
Amy made a face, "You know what they say. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice..." Amy didn't finish, "You know the rest. I ain't putting myself in that situation again. I'm 37 years old and I need to find a real man."
The diner was crowded that day. Amy and her friend were sitting together at a small table. Each one had a coffee and a slice of pie.
"Have you talked to him?" The friend asked, taking her fork to the pie.
"Nope," Amy said bluntly, "He doesn't have a cell phone. How could I talk to him even if I wanted to? I haven't seen him in days."
"What will he do? Go back to Connecticut?"
"You know, I don't know and I don't care."
The friend made a face at Amy's response. She started to say something but closed her mouth. Amy noticed this and narrowed eyes, "Do you have something you want to say?"
The friend pursed her lips, "This time you should be... positive about it. Like, don't give him another chance. Make it a clean break. I know you have a hard time doing that."
Amy sighed loudly, "I know I've had problems with it... but I know I deserve better then how he's treating me! He uses my car, my house, and even me. He puts gas in my car but doesn't pay rent. He's sending money to some girl back in Connecticut. I let him live with me and didn't ask for a single dime. It's over."
The friend took another sip of her coffee, seemingly to pause her comment even longer. She pushed some of her short blonde hair behind her ear, "Do you still love him?"
Amy drew back at the question; she clearly wasn't expecting it and didn't know what to say, "Of course I do. I probably always will care about him. But he can't live with me and say he 'doesn't want a relationship'. I'm obviously emotionally attached to him, but he keeps stringing me along. Or maybe I'm doing this to myself. Either way, this is a new start for me. I've gone through so many jerks in the past few years that I have go to find a nice guy or else I'm gunna go crazy."
The friend nodded, "That's what you deserve."
After that, they went back to normal conversation. Amy self-consciously kept checking her phone, as if she was expecting a phone call from somebody. Then, Amy's phone did ring, and she put a finger up and answered it.
The friend watched as Amy walked outside with her phone attached to her ear. She sighed as if to say, 'Maybe it isn't a clean break at all'.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Week Two Prompts

5. Those who forget history are forced to relive it, first as tragedy, then as farce.


People who don't learn from history are clearly bound to make the same mistakes that have already been made. History tends to repeat itself in ways. People who think that the misfortunes in history won't happen again are sadly mistaken. World War I was called the war to end all wars. Clearly that wasn't true. Human beings are flawed creatures; we claim to learn from our mistakes but we almost never do. When someone makes the mistake of re-living forgotten history once, it sometimes can still end up being salvageable. But not always. Mistakes can only be made so many times until it causes havoc to break.



6. The stuff I've collected over the years in my little box/bureau drawer/keepsake chest marks every step of my way.


Souvenirs are more then just mementos collected. There's a reason why people enjoy collecting things so heavily. It's more then a materialistic item- it's a piece of the place you've been. People enjoy post cards for a reason; people enjoy collecting t-shirts with locations on them for a reason. It's nice to have tangible evidence of your adventures; it's nice to have something other then stories that you can pass down to your loved ones. I have many things that I keep because I got them somewhere exciting, and I can always remember where I got each thing. Keepsakes are more then just things.



7. Looking in that photo album, I see-- 


How different life was when the picture was taken. The moment in which the picture was taken. The smiles on the faces of the people in the picture. When the picture was taken. Where the picture was taken. 
Usually, when I look through photo albums, I see pictures of my childhood. We didn't have much money, but we have a lot of priceless memories. Many of my pictures are of me wearing hand-me-down clothes and doing things that really didn't cost any money. Sledding and playing in the yard. Picking apples. Dancing in the living room. Playing dress up with my cousin and my sister. Looking at photo albums is a great way to look back into how things used to be or how things maybe even should be again. The best thing is to look at the pictures and not feel sad... Feel happy for having had these memories at all. 



Theme Week Two

 2002...

"Ouch!" I cried as my barefoot slammed down on a thorn bush. I stopped for a moment and rubbed my foot, but soon enough I was running through the forest as fast as I could.
Perhaps the bare feet were a bad idea, but I didn't really care. I ran through those woods barefoot for years. I've stepped on plenty of thorn bushes, bumble bees, broken glass piles and even a few staples that my feet were as rough as a caveman's. Never once have I encountered poison ivy.
I was hopping over broken trees and stumps as I sprinted even faster. I could hear my mother yelling for me to come to dinner. At this point, I could see the house through the thicket. Finally, I emerged, stepping on a rotten apple that fell from the apple tree. It squished in between my toes and made a down-right gross noise. I shook my foot until the gook flew off.
"HOLLIANNNNN!" I heard my mother yell. I knew that was the last time she'd yell it. Her tone was clearly unimpressed. I walked in the house; the heat from the fire of the wood stove warmed my bones. My legs were raw from the cold autumn air and scratched from the wild I just ran through.
My mother saw me walk in the house, but didn't say anything. She stared at me and I could tell... She was mad.
I did this all too often. I ran off whenever I felt like thinking or singing to myself. Living in the middle of the woods as we did, we had no neighbors. Privacy was your only choice.
My mother hated that I ran off so much. It bothered her. My father encouraged me to adventure the forest we were surrounded by. But as I looked past my unhappy mother, I saw my father sitting at the kitchen table. He was visibly unhappy as well. It was deer hunting season and I had made the mistake of going out with my natural light-bronze colored hair falling all around my shoulders, with no hunter-orange hat in sight.
"Hi, Mom." I said, cutting the tense silence, "Sorry it took me so long to get back to the house."
She didn't say anything right away. She mainly looked at me with disbelief in her eyes. Finally, she sighed, and I knew the lecture had begun.
"Have you ever looked in a mirror, Holliann?" Mom asked me.
I wanted to make a stupid joke but I knew it was too soon. I simply nodded.
"Tell me something... Does your hair look about the color of a deer? Because I think it looks like the color of a deer. Don't you agree, Don?" She asked, turning to my dad.
"Yes, Anne. I think her hair is almost exactly the color of a deer."
Mom looked back at me and narrowed her eyes, "The next time you decide to run off, if you're not wearing an orange hat, you're grounded. You could get shot! Someone could see you running through the woods and they'll think you're a deer. You understand?"
I nodded slowly and bit the inside of my cheek.
"And why aren't you wearing shoes?" My dad added, "You're going to hurt your feet if you keep doing that."
I exhaled quietly. I got this sort of lecture from my parents all too often.
"I don't like shoes." I replied simply. My father rolled his eyes.
With that, the argument ended, and I sat down at the table. My mother hurried off to call Donny and Cindy to the table.
Cindy sat down with a mud mask on her face and her hair piled on the top of her head. Donny sat down wearing nothing but his underwear. At 12, Cindy was all about learning how to apply make-up and going through Mom's beauty supplies. Donny was 6 and refused to wear clothes whenever he was at the house. (The fact that Mom got him to wear underwear at all was a big step.) At 10, I was almost never inside. I'd ride bikes with my friends or explore. Our 150 year old farm house sat atop a hill and was surrounded by 96 acres of land that belonged to my parents. This land was pure untouched, despite a few hunting trails that had been there for years. My home town consisted of less then 150 people and had one general store. I was the gas station, redemption center, post office, liquor store, bate shop, smoke shop, and grocery store all in one. There wasn't even a school in my town.
So most of my childhood was spent running around in the woods, completely barefoot. I have scars scattered on my legs from unfortunate accidents I encountered as a clumsy kid who liked to play in the woods too much.
Dinner that night was surprisingly nice. My parents didn't break out into an argument. My sister talked about boys at school and how she really loved the fifth grade. Donny had just started kindergarten, and he said a few things about how nice his teacher is. I said a few things here and there, but mainly all I could think about was getting back to that forest and running around again. Being surrounded by that enchanting wilderness is possibly the most whole I've ever felt.
I just had to find where I put my hunter-orange hat.

2005...

It was another normal day for me. I was riding my bike to see a few friends at the general store, which is a fairly short bike ride from my house. As I rode down a hill, I stuck my arms out straight. I smiled at how the wind felt. It was March, and the snow was melting quickly and it was warm enough to wear shorts and a t-shirt. Well, it was warm enough for me to wear a t-shirt and shorts. It was about 60 degrees out, which is practically a heat wave after the winter we just endured.
I turned off the Bingo Road (the road I live on) and turned onto the main road. The store was a short distance from there.
I pulled into the dirt parking lot of the store and parked my bike. I could see my friend Damien waiting for me, sitting on the ground throwing a rock.
"Hey," I said once I saw him.
"Hi." He replied and smiled. He pointed up the road in the opposite direction of my house. I could see Felicia walking down the hill, "She's almost here too."
I nodded and sat down to talk.
Felicia, Damien and I were best friends when we were kids. We spent every day doing this; taking bike rides and having long talks. We were inseparable. So much so, in fact, that Felicia and I both had a huge crush on Damien.
And at 13, how could I not? He was the kid in class who always acted up and was always sent to the office. He was tall and had big blue eyes and a killer smile. Of course I had a crush on him. He lived really close to me, and we used to hang out for hours on end.
Once Felicia got there, Damien had a bit of a proposition for us.
"Let's play spin the bottle." He said, once the three of us greeted each other.
I didn't say anything. I didn't want to play that! My first kiss was when I was 8 and was attacked by a boy at Felicia's birthday party, but still! I didn't like the idea at all.
"Um, sure." Felicia said, a bit hesitant.
Damien smiled and then looked at me. I shrugged and said, "Why not?"
Before I knew it, the three of us were behind the store playing spin the bottle. It seemed like a really silly game to me. There were only three of us... Why even bother?
Damien spun the bottle and it landed on Felicia. Since Felicia was much better with guys then me, she simply smiled and leaned in. They kissed, and I felt like the most awkward third wheel on the planet.
Then, it was my turn. I spun it an it landed on Felicia. I quickly spun it again, and it landed on my only other option... Damien.
I didn't want to do this. At all. But, he looked at me and smiled. Almost involuntarily, I leaned it.
When I went to kiss him, I accidentally wrinkled my nose; a nervous habit I've always had. It was an awkward experience anyways, but the nose wrinkling made it worse.
Once the silly game was over, the three of us went to the old basketball court up the road and sat around and talked. We laid on our backs and watched the clouds float by, talking about everything under the sun, except the game of spin the bottle we just played.
None of us had a curfew; we just had to be back before dark. Once the sun started setting, we all took off on our bikes. Felicia in one direction, Damien and I on the other. He stopped somewhere along to way to say hello to someone, so I waved goodbye and continued on.
The whole way home I thought about what had just happened. Why did they both act like everything was so normal? He had just kissed us both! That's not something that should be taken lightly.
The air got colder as I turned onto my road. Trees were thick on both sides of me as I winded down the beat-up old Bingo Road to my house. I avoided pot holes and stuck my arms out as I went down hills, all the while still wondering why he wanted to play spin the bottle with both of us.
I passed an old swamp that's on my road and was asking myself why I was thinking about it so much... it was just an innocent game of spin the bottle.
It never occurred to me then, but it really wasn't an innocent game at all.

2008...

I always had the same friends in high school. In fact, I pretty much have the same friends now. We're all incredibly close, and try to see each other as often as possible.
But in high school, we were never apart. We played the same sports, joined the same clubs, hung out after school every day. 
Not too long after the spin-the-bottle incident, Damien moved away. But I was still best friends with Felicia for all of high school. I befriended a couple of girls through my cousin, there were a couple girls who lived in town close to us, and we all just connected instantly. There was a circle of about eight of us. We had sleep overs at least once a month, and all of them had themes.
They always ended the same way... Us laying awake and talking about the future.
One night, we had a sleep over at one of the girl's camps. The theme was murder mystery. We all came dressed as a character from a murder mystery game and we spent the evening trying to figure out who was the murderer all along. It remains one of my fondest memories. 
"Do you think we'll be friends truly forever?" I asked later, when we were all sprawled on the floor in our sleeping bags. I was 16 years old, and I was afraid of what the future had in store for me.
"I think we will." Asia said, always so sure of herself, "I can't imagine any reason why we wouldn't."
"My father always tells me that I'll never talk to my friends from high school again once I start college," Laura said quietly, "He tells me that I won't even recognize you all in ten years or so."
There was a silence. This always comes up. We're all equally scared of what's to come within the next two years. We all want to go to different schools and do different things. How can stay as close as we are?
"That's not true." Felicia butted in, sitting up, "I would never let that happen."
"I don't think any of us would." Tiffany added, sitting up to put her glasses away.
"I honestly want you all in my life forever." I said with a sad tone.
"You're all talking like graduation day is tomorrow." Asia started, "I don't even graduate for almost a year and a half, and I'm a year older then you."
"It'll go by fast, though." Felicia added dimly. We all thought it, she said it.
We all sighed, almost in unison.
"All that means is that we have to have as much fun as we can these next two years." I said, "And promise to never stop being friends."
I sat up and looked at my best friends. Their faces, so young and fresh, all looked at me with wide eyes. We were all afraid of what was to come. Soon, our sleepovers would end. After school adventures would end. We wouldn't be able to pass notes in between classes, or gossip in the hallway. We were still young and so hopeful, and on that rainy night, we made the promise to stay friends.
I'm in my second year of college, and so far, we've kept our promise.

2010...
It was 'the big day'.
Four years of hard work had all added up to one day of sitting in a chair waiting to receive my diploma.
I woke up early that morning, even though graduation wasn't until 3 in the afternoon.
I spent the preparing for my day. I've been preparing for it for 4 years, but now it was really here.

I sat in my chair in the gym, on the stage, in the middle of an ocean of purple and gold robes. I listened as the principal spoke about how this class had really given him a run for his money.
I looked around. It was true. This class was full of misfits and trouble makers. Kids who flooded bathrooms and broke windows. Started fights and vandalized. Sold drugs in the hallway and drank before school.
But when you went to a sporting event, we were all one. We'd paint our faces and make signs. We'd scream and yell for our classmates. We never let them down.
This was the last time we'd be together as a group.
I sat up there and waited as they handed out scholarships and awards. I won a few, but all I could think about was that diploma.
Once I got it, time almost stood still. It was the happiest feeling I've felt. I felt so accomplished... It was a freeing feeling.
After graduation, we all took pictures and greeted our families as high school graduates. Once all of the guests moved out, it was time for an over-nighter that we were having in the school.
We had a bouncy house, a live band, manicures, casino games, and massages. We even had a hypnotist show. So far, it was one of the funnest nights of my life.
At one point, Laura got a strange text message from a friend who was a year younger then us.
He hid in the school and had been there all night.
Stifling our laughter, Laura and I escaped the chaperones and scoped him out. He was hiding in the wood shop classroom.
"Why are you here?" We asked him once we found him.
He shrugged, "I didn't have a ride home."
We all stood and laughed. Throughout the night, we'd go off and find him again, bringing him food when we did. Eventually, our class and chaperones found out, but no harm was done.
After the all-night event, I drove home to Waite. I cried the entire time. It was as if I couldn't control myself. The tears just flowed out of me. Once I got home, I collapsed into my mother's arms and sobbed.
I laid in bed with my parents for days. I couldn't seem to find the strength to get up. My father was worried about me, I was worried about me. My mother just stroked my hair and told me it was alright. I thought I'd never feel okay again.
It was just so painful to accept that it was all over.
That huge part of my life had ended that day, and the realization didn't hit me until I was on my way home.
Those people who I'd spent years learning to grow and love... They were all going off places. I was moving two hours away within the next three months. It was all happening so fast and I didn't want it to happen any faster.
Once I got up and showered, I hung out with my friends. I had forgotten that it was summer. I had something to look forward to.
We had an amazing summer that year. We spent every day together; swimming, biking, walking, talking, playing card games and spending as much time together as possible.
The group of us... we seem to be soul mates in a way. We all need each other, in different ways. I can't even imagine the person I'd be without them.