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.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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?
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?
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
Week 11 last prompt
He knew enough about words not to trust them; he loved them too much to trust them
He had always thought that the human mind was the most fascinating place on the planet. He thought that all thoughts were great ones, and that all conversations that were had meant something. When he was young he was naive, he thought that everything really did happen for a reason. He was enthusiastic. He believed in good. He maybe even thought that people weren't good because they were avoiding the consequences of being bad; he thought they were good because they just were.
Getting older hadn't helped his spirit. He would wake up and tell himself it'd be a great day. He'd go to sleep thinking, "Well, today wasn't great, but tomorrow would be!". He'd wake up every day and hope for the best. Disappointment accompanied him to bed every night.
Suddenly the days started getting longer and he started seeing things less bright. In the morning he used to wake up and go out into the world with all he had. Now all he wants to do is sleep; now he wakes up and feels like he never slept at all.
People tell him that things will be alright; people tell him that it's just a rough patch he's going through. But nothing seems to get better. He's constantly comparing his life to other's. He is never content. He's never happy.
He enjoyed to write about people who were happy. The words he wrote were untrue; he knew that it was fiction. He knew his stories weren't real.
But with everything he wrote, he knew that he was further away from the happiness he searched. They were too sweet to believe. He wanted them to be true so badly, but his spirit told him that there was nothing he could do.
He had always thought that the human mind was the most fascinating place on the planet. He thought that all thoughts were great ones, and that all conversations that were had meant something. When he was young he was naive, he thought that everything really did happen for a reason. He was enthusiastic. He believed in good. He maybe even thought that people weren't good because they were avoiding the consequences of being bad; he thought they were good because they just were.
Getting older hadn't helped his spirit. He would wake up and tell himself it'd be a great day. He'd go to sleep thinking, "Well, today wasn't great, but tomorrow would be!". He'd wake up every day and hope for the best. Disappointment accompanied him to bed every night.
Suddenly the days started getting longer and he started seeing things less bright. In the morning he used to wake up and go out into the world with all he had. Now all he wants to do is sleep; now he wakes up and feels like he never slept at all.
People tell him that things will be alright; people tell him that it's just a rough patch he's going through. But nothing seems to get better. He's constantly comparing his life to other's. He is never content. He's never happy.
He enjoyed to write about people who were happy. The words he wrote were untrue; he knew that it was fiction. He knew his stories weren't real.
But with everything he wrote, he knew that he was further away from the happiness he searched. They were too sweet to believe. He wanted them to be true so badly, but his spirit told him that there was nothing he could do.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Week 11 - 55
55. Sometimes humans are defined as tool-using animals. Nowadays, the scientists talk about chimps both making and using tools, but, hey, we're Number One! Tools in their chests, drawers, and wallracks; tools scattered on the table; tools used and unused, new and old; tools of love, tools of war, tools of work, tools of play. Tools can say a lot.
Walking down the muddy driveway towards the old garage, he watched as his workboots seeped into the mud with every step. He looked around and saw the damage that the hurricane had had on the old garage his father had built.
He took a step inside the dark and dusty garage. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. Sitting in the middle of the cement-floor was the old yellow and green John Deere tractor that, although it was on its last limbs, had helped him out in countless situations.
He slipped on a pair of work gloves to protect his calussed and permanently oil stained hands. He looked up to survey the damage that the tropical storm had caused.
The roof was very clearly caving in at the weight from the water and the wear and tear of numerous rough winters.
Sighing, he contemplated his options. He could repair or replace the roof, which would cost money he didn't really have to spare at the moment. He could build beams to help support the roof. But with the winter not far away and the daylight scarce, he knew he didn't have time to do that, especially working 7 days a week.
He knew that there was only one plausible option. One that was quick fix.
He didn't want to do that, though. This garage was older then his kids. He built it with his father when he was just a teenager. It was the first thing they built as father and son. Soon after that they were building houses and additions together.
Scattered all over the work benches in this garage were tools that had been with him longer then some friends had. Most of them rusty; all of them well-used. Where could he put all of these tools? Many of them weren't modern and he really didn't know when or what he'd use them for, but they were still tools that his father gave him. And now as a man nearing his 50's, he had very little left of his father other then old pictures, memories and these tools. The tools embodied many of the memories. Some of their best conversations were spent on top of roofs as their hands worked with tools.
He never cared about items; as a boy brought up on a farm, he earned everything he had. And he's always believed that. He only had clothes that he wore frequently, he didn't wear cologne, he had three good pair of shoes. He only kept the important knicknacks, most of them gifts from his kids. He didn't care about stuff.
He had his dog, he had his family, he had his truck. What else did he need?
Feeling attached to something like old rusty tools and an old garage made him feel stupid. But he still felt that he couldn't part with this old garage. But he had to make a decision soon; because by the looks of it, this roof will cave in by the middle of this next winter.
He laid his hand on the old John Deere tractor and sat for a minute, his memories doing all the talking.
Walking down the muddy driveway towards the old garage, he watched as his workboots seeped into the mud with every step. He looked around and saw the damage that the hurricane had had on the old garage his father had built.
He took a step inside the dark and dusty garage. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. Sitting in the middle of the cement-floor was the old yellow and green John Deere tractor that, although it was on its last limbs, had helped him out in countless situations.
He slipped on a pair of work gloves to protect his calussed and permanently oil stained hands. He looked up to survey the damage that the tropical storm had caused.
The roof was very clearly caving in at the weight from the water and the wear and tear of numerous rough winters.
Sighing, he contemplated his options. He could repair or replace the roof, which would cost money he didn't really have to spare at the moment. He could build beams to help support the roof. But with the winter not far away and the daylight scarce, he knew he didn't have time to do that, especially working 7 days a week.
He knew that there was only one plausible option. One that was quick fix.
He didn't want to do that, though. This garage was older then his kids. He built it with his father when he was just a teenager. It was the first thing they built as father and son. Soon after that they were building houses and additions together.
Scattered all over the work benches in this garage were tools that had been with him longer then some friends had. Most of them rusty; all of them well-used. Where could he put all of these tools? Many of them weren't modern and he really didn't know when or what he'd use them for, but they were still tools that his father gave him. And now as a man nearing his 50's, he had very little left of his father other then old pictures, memories and these tools. The tools embodied many of the memories. Some of their best conversations were spent on top of roofs as their hands worked with tools.
He never cared about items; as a boy brought up on a farm, he earned everything he had. And he's always believed that. He only had clothes that he wore frequently, he didn't wear cologne, he had three good pair of shoes. He only kept the important knicknacks, most of them gifts from his kids. He didn't care about stuff.
He had his dog, he had his family, he had his truck. What else did he need?
Feeling attached to something like old rusty tools and an old garage made him feel stupid. But he still felt that he couldn't part with this old garage. But he had to make a decision soon; because by the looks of it, this roof will cave in by the middle of this next winter.
He laid his hand on the old John Deere tractor and sat for a minute, his memories doing all the talking.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
52 - uncle henry's
(I'm going to post my theme for alienation... I'm just working on it a bit! But I really need to get caught up)
52. There are a dozen stories on every page of Uncle Henry's--tales of divorce, death, wasted money, plans that went nowhere, hopes destroyed only to rise again, dreams deferred and dreams turned into nightmares. And as I read it, I see a million Maine cellars, attics, living rooms, barns, camps, boathouses, garages. Faces, voices, images of people too. You could do worse than Uncle Henry's as a source of writing ideas--how about looking through Uncle Henry's to find a prompt? Find an ad, copy it so we know where you're starting, and speculate on the tale behind it--thinking as you write about meanings beyond the obvious.
14 ft canoe for sale. I think hull is plastic or fiberglass with cherry ribs...hull and thwart & both seats are good, needs gunnels and wood keel replaced. Wide and stable canoe. would be a perfect solo canoe. very light to take to back woods pond...I was told by original owner the canoe was made by Old Town. can e-mail photos later. $75
"You haven't sold that damn canoe yet?" His wife's voice harped as she burst through the front door that gloomy day. The cold air that gusted in behind her felt as sharp on him as her tone.
"No, considering it's sitting in the garage." He replied quietly. He looked over at his wife from his spot at the kitchen table. Her arms were crossed and her turning-salt and-pepper hair was frizzing, probably due to the on-and-off rain today.
"You priced that old piece of junk too high, Jerry."
"Do you know anything about canoes?" He asked calmly, "Old Town Canoe makes some of the world's finest canoes, Margaret. The price I've given it is more then generous."
She scoffed and tossed her keys in the key bowl next to the door, "There is no way to tell if that's really an Old Town Canoe. The thing is so old the label has rubbed off. And plus the old coot you bought it off of probably said that to get more money out of you."
Jerry had bought that canoe years ago when him and Margaret were newlyweds. He purchased it from an old man who lived on their road who was simply looking to sell it to someone who would use it. Jerry thought it'd be perfect for him and Margaret to use to go on camping trips or if they just wanted a relaxing day on the lake. When he purchased it, Margaret was happy and excited when he bought it. At that time, she had loved being outside just like he always has.
Jerry sighed heavily, "You know better then anyone how much that canoe means to me, Margaret."
Her eyes barely softened. At this point, she wanted the canoe gone, or else Jerry was gone, "You have absolutely no use for it anymore. Your back is bad, your arms are brittle, and you wouldn't even be able to stay awake for a whole canoe trip anymore. Yeah, we spent some great times in that canoe, but it's time to let go."
Jerry remembered when they were young and they spent hours in that canoe, just floating on the lake and talking about their future plans. Jerry wanted a son, and hoped he would also find joy from that canoe. His son turned out to be a computer whiz who really never cared about the old canoe.
"Neither one of the girls want the canoe?" Jerry asked, knowing that Jerry Jr. would have no use for it.
"Both of them have apartments in the city." Margaret replied and shrugged. She slipped her shoes off. "I still think you priced it too high. I want it gone, Jerry. It's only taking up space we could use for something that's actually useful."
Jerry watched helplessly and Margaret walked into the living room and took a seat next to their stone fireplace. They used to spend nights sitting next to that fireplace when the power would go out during a storm. He wondered how long ago it was that they sat and had a long conversation over a glass of wine. It must have been years.
Jerry wondered how none of his kids wanted something that meant so much to him. Yes, it was an old canoe. But it was a piece of his life too. Why didn't his wife of 43 years see that? The love of his life couldn't see that this was hurting him. Even if she did see that it hurt, did she really even care?
Jerry sighed and stood up from the table. He slowly walked past his wife and went into his study, unable to look her in the face.
52. There are a dozen stories on every page of Uncle Henry's--tales of divorce, death, wasted money, plans that went nowhere, hopes destroyed only to rise again, dreams deferred and dreams turned into nightmares. And as I read it, I see a million Maine cellars, attics, living rooms, barns, camps, boathouses, garages. Faces, voices, images of people too. You could do worse than Uncle Henry's as a source of writing ideas--how about looking through Uncle Henry's to find a prompt? Find an ad, copy it so we know where you're starting, and speculate on the tale behind it--thinking as you write about meanings beyond the obvious.
14 ft canoe for sale. I think hull is plastic or fiberglass with cherry ribs...hull and thwart & both seats are good, needs gunnels and wood keel replaced. Wide and stable canoe. would be a perfect solo canoe. very light to take to back woods pond...I was told by original owner the canoe was made by Old Town. can e-mail photos later. $75
"You haven't sold that damn canoe yet?" His wife's voice harped as she burst through the front door that gloomy day. The cold air that gusted in behind her felt as sharp on him as her tone.
"No, considering it's sitting in the garage." He replied quietly. He looked over at his wife from his spot at the kitchen table. Her arms were crossed and her turning-salt and-pepper hair was frizzing, probably due to the on-and-off rain today.
"You priced that old piece of junk too high, Jerry."
"Do you know anything about canoes?" He asked calmly, "Old Town Canoe makes some of the world's finest canoes, Margaret. The price I've given it is more then generous."
She scoffed and tossed her keys in the key bowl next to the door, "There is no way to tell if that's really an Old Town Canoe. The thing is so old the label has rubbed off. And plus the old coot you bought it off of probably said that to get more money out of you."
Jerry had bought that canoe years ago when him and Margaret were newlyweds. He purchased it from an old man who lived on their road who was simply looking to sell it to someone who would use it. Jerry thought it'd be perfect for him and Margaret to use to go on camping trips or if they just wanted a relaxing day on the lake. When he purchased it, Margaret was happy and excited when he bought it. At that time, she had loved being outside just like he always has.
Jerry sighed heavily, "You know better then anyone how much that canoe means to me, Margaret."
Her eyes barely softened. At this point, she wanted the canoe gone, or else Jerry was gone, "You have absolutely no use for it anymore. Your back is bad, your arms are brittle, and you wouldn't even be able to stay awake for a whole canoe trip anymore. Yeah, we spent some great times in that canoe, but it's time to let go."
Jerry remembered when they were young and they spent hours in that canoe, just floating on the lake and talking about their future plans. Jerry wanted a son, and hoped he would also find joy from that canoe. His son turned out to be a computer whiz who really never cared about the old canoe.
"Neither one of the girls want the canoe?" Jerry asked, knowing that Jerry Jr. would have no use for it.
"Both of them have apartments in the city." Margaret replied and shrugged. She slipped her shoes off. "I still think you priced it too high. I want it gone, Jerry. It's only taking up space we could use for something that's actually useful."
Jerry watched helplessly and Margaret walked into the living room and took a seat next to their stone fireplace. They used to spend nights sitting next to that fireplace when the power would go out during a storm. He wondered how long ago it was that they sat and had a long conversation over a glass of wine. It must have been years.
Jerry wondered how none of his kids wanted something that meant so much to him. Yes, it was an old canoe. But it was a piece of his life too. Why didn't his wife of 43 years see that? The love of his life couldn't see that this was hurting him. Even if she did see that it hurt, did she really even care?
Jerry sighed and stood up from the table. He slowly walked past his wife and went into his study, unable to look her in the face.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
49. Doesn't matter where you begin, you'll end up back here.
I am sitting at a stop light and all I can think of is getting out of here. I don't want to continue driving, I don't want to go any longer. Nothing is more appealing to me then pulling the car onto a remote exit and driving for hours down a road with no lights.
I don't want to see this street anymore. I don't want to see any more of what I have been seeing.
Driving, driving, I decide to leave.
I decide not to stop until I see what I want to see. Nothing fits like this fits; it's a puzzle piece that belongs with me.
I drive forward and I avoid the rear-view. I don't want to look back and all I want is to look forward.
Everything where I was has good things; it has positive things. But where I'm going has what I need. It has what I always wanted and needed. I am going in glorious circles that aren't vicious at all.
There's a silver lining to this gray cloud; I've learned and I've grown here, but I'll return to where it started. I'll return to what brought me here in the first place. My want to get out brought me here; and now my need to get back is what will turn me around.
I don't want to see this street anymore. I don't want to see any more of what I have been seeing.
Driving, driving, I decide to leave.
I decide not to stop until I see what I want to see. Nothing fits like this fits; it's a puzzle piece that belongs with me.
I drive forward and I avoid the rear-view. I don't want to look back and all I want is to look forward.
Everything where I was has good things; it has positive things. But where I'm going has what I need. It has what I always wanted and needed. I am going in glorious circles that aren't vicious at all.
There's a silver lining to this gray cloud; I've learned and I've grown here, but I'll return to where it started. I'll return to what brought me here in the first place. My want to get out brought me here; and now my need to get back is what will turn me around.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Week 10 prompt 2
44. You write a story which ends with the words, "...and then I woke up and it was only a dream." And then you wake up.
I'm frantically running through the wild, jungle wilderness. My voice is gone but I'm heaving, fighting for breath. I'm clawing at the branches and trees that are in my way. I'm fighting.
The massive thudding and pounding that's quickly catching up to me causes me to run even faster. I look below me and it's like I can't see my legs anymore. I'm darting, I'm sprinting, I'm scared.
My eyes are wide with fear and my blood is hot with adrenaline. Stopping isn't an option. Running is all I can do. There is nothing else.
I am so afraid, but I feel stronger then ever, and nothing can stop me.
As I'm running, the forest isn't quite as thick. I suddenly realize I'm approaching a clearing. I burst through the clearing with all that I have. I'm standing on a road. A road that I vaguely remember. I stop running, but only for a moment.
Even though I've been running so frantically, my breathing is relatively slow. My heart isn't pounding as fast as it was a minute ago. I'm not nearly as afraid. I look behind me and see, against the white and gray overcast sky, the tall trees of the forest shake and quiver. My chaser is getting close again. I smile and dart off once again.
My feet tap against the pavement as I run like the wind. For some unknown reason, I laugh. I laugh like I was whispered a funny joke from the silent trees. The pounding behind me continues to follow in my path. This bumpy, mangled road is becoming more familiar to me with every step I take.
I hop over a pot hole and remember where I am.
"The Bingo Road!" I cry out loud, with great happiness. I'm running up the road I grew up on as a child.
I look behind me and can see the beast that's chased me for almost a hundred miles.
Standing taller then any tree in the forest is a giant dinosaur. At the end of this arms are claws sharper then razors, and in his mouth were a thousand teeth even sharper. His scaly skin is a bright orange color, and his ginormous feet leave crater-like footprints in the pavement.
I make a face at him and wink, and his eyes turn bright red. I must've made him angry.
But I'm not scared anymore.
I make it to the top of the hill where my home is and dart down the dirt driveway. I bolt through the door and wait with a smile. I know he's coming.
His footsteps shake the house as he rumbles near. He crashes his head through the front door. His terrifying jaw opens and he roars at me. I only smile bigger.
My mother screams from behind me, and grabs my arm. She tries to get me to go with her, but I know what I must do.
I looked straight into his red eyes.
"It's not real!" I yelled, with all the energy I had left, "It's not real!"
Just like that... he vanished. Everything went quiet.
All that was left where he was standing was a comical dinosaur costume.
I picked up the costume and tossed it aside. I laughed to myself and hugged my mother.
And then I woke up. It was only a dream.
I lay in my bed, cold sweat running down my face.
The nightmare with the dinosaur returns to me at least once a month. The usual ending is me in a corner and him smirking at his prey.
This time I knew what he was. I knew he wasn't real. I knew he couldn't hurt me.
I smiled and went back to sleep, feeling like I had conquered a fear.
I'm frantically running through the wild, jungle wilderness. My voice is gone but I'm heaving, fighting for breath. I'm clawing at the branches and trees that are in my way. I'm fighting.
The massive thudding and pounding that's quickly catching up to me causes me to run even faster. I look below me and it's like I can't see my legs anymore. I'm darting, I'm sprinting, I'm scared.
My eyes are wide with fear and my blood is hot with adrenaline. Stopping isn't an option. Running is all I can do. There is nothing else.
I am so afraid, but I feel stronger then ever, and nothing can stop me.
As I'm running, the forest isn't quite as thick. I suddenly realize I'm approaching a clearing. I burst through the clearing with all that I have. I'm standing on a road. A road that I vaguely remember. I stop running, but only for a moment.
Even though I've been running so frantically, my breathing is relatively slow. My heart isn't pounding as fast as it was a minute ago. I'm not nearly as afraid. I look behind me and see, against the white and gray overcast sky, the tall trees of the forest shake and quiver. My chaser is getting close again. I smile and dart off once again.
My feet tap against the pavement as I run like the wind. For some unknown reason, I laugh. I laugh like I was whispered a funny joke from the silent trees. The pounding behind me continues to follow in my path. This bumpy, mangled road is becoming more familiar to me with every step I take.
I hop over a pot hole and remember where I am.
"The Bingo Road!" I cry out loud, with great happiness. I'm running up the road I grew up on as a child.
I look behind me and can see the beast that's chased me for almost a hundred miles.
Standing taller then any tree in the forest is a giant dinosaur. At the end of this arms are claws sharper then razors, and in his mouth were a thousand teeth even sharper. His scaly skin is a bright orange color, and his ginormous feet leave crater-like footprints in the pavement.
I make a face at him and wink, and his eyes turn bright red. I must've made him angry.
But I'm not scared anymore.
I make it to the top of the hill where my home is and dart down the dirt driveway. I bolt through the door and wait with a smile. I know he's coming.
His footsteps shake the house as he rumbles near. He crashes his head through the front door. His terrifying jaw opens and he roars at me. I only smile bigger.
My mother screams from behind me, and grabs my arm. She tries to get me to go with her, but I know what I must do.
I looked straight into his red eyes.
"It's not real!" I yelled, with all the energy I had left, "It's not real!"
Just like that... he vanished. Everything went quiet.
All that was left where he was standing was a comical dinosaur costume.
I picked up the costume and tossed it aside. I laughed to myself and hugged my mother.
And then I woke up. It was only a dream.
I lay in my bed, cold sweat running down my face.
The nightmare with the dinosaur returns to me at least once a month. The usual ending is me in a corner and him smirking at his prey.
This time I knew what he was. I knew he wasn't real. I knew he couldn't hurt me.
I smiled and went back to sleep, feeling like I had conquered a fear.
Monday, November 7, 2011
Week 10 prompt number 1 (late, I know!) sorry!
43. The pin pricks your skin. You feel nothing.
Feeling nothing is like being trapped in a box. You can't move, you don't care. I look down at my hands and it's like they aren't there. I sit there, feeling like there are bars on the windows, even if there are none. My breathing is heavy, my face is blank.
The world feels a million miles away. The room is empty and I'm alone.
I stand up and go to the window. The dim light streams in through the smudges and the dust. I can't see the blue in the sky or the white of the clouds. My eyes react violently to the light and i close my eyes quickly. The sun is a reminder of all things good.
All the things I've lost now.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Week 9 Theme
The Woodland High School library was bustling with students today. It was crowded and loud. Today was the big blood drive, and a good number of students were participating. I walked into the library and talked to the woman at the desk. I sat down at a table with some other kids that were donating. Most of them were trouble makers who wanted to get out of class that day; the others were ones who really wanted to help out the cause.
I went into the testing room to see if I was able to donate. My iron level was great, my blood pressure was fine, I was perfectly able to donate.
I got all set up on a bed with a needle hanging from my arm. I was given a ball to squeeze. The nurse told me to relax. I sat there for a few minutes and bled into the bag. The nurse came back over to check on me.
"Oh, goodness!" She cried, "Your bag is full already." She checked the timer, "After only 4 and half minutes!"
She gauzed me up and escorted me to the table where everyone who already donated sat. I had to sit for twenty minutes and eat cookies and juice.
At the table were a few of my girl friends who were involved in the National Honor Society that was holding the event.
"How do you feel?" My friend Hannah asked, "You donated really fast."
I shrugged, "I feel fine. I don't feel any different."
"Okay, well if you do feel like you're going to faint just hit the bell that it's in the middle of the table." Hannah gestured to the bell that was located in the middle of the table.
We talked for a few minutes about school and the soccer game that was lost the night before. I looked at the clock and realized it was time for me to go.
"You don't have to leave," Hannah said, "This period is pretty much over with; you can hang out for a while."
I started to stand up, "No, I really should be.... going..."
I started sweating bullets. The room was spinning and my mind was going dark. Hannah must've noticed, because she gasped and hit the bell. As soon as she hit that bell, I passed out, hit my head on the table, and slunk to the floor.
I woke up a few minutes later with about eight people looking down on me. They were fanning my face and shoving a straw into my mouth. They were asking me how I felt and putting a washcloth on my forehead.
"You donated a pint way too fast." A man in scrubs said as he elevated my legs.
I realized then what had just happened.
I fainted in my high school library, in front of pretty much everybody.
***
I needed to get some things done so I walked to the library during my lunch period. My government essay was due the next period, and I had some editing to do.
The only two people in the library during this time was Greg, and the librarian Mrs. Brown.
Greg was the cutest guy in school. Although I've never been the kind to go for a boy like Greg, he was different. Not only was he movie-star handsome and incredibly smooth, he was also extremely humble and friendly.
He said hello to me as I walked past him and sat at a computer. It was silent in the library; the only noise was the zipping of the copy machine and the tip-tapping of keyboards. Greg was trying to make small talk with Mrs. Brown, but as she impatiently peered at him from above her wire-rimmed glasses, it was clear to me that she didn't have much time for small talk.
My purse was sitting on the computer table next to the monitor. Suddenly, a buzzing noise was coming from my purse, and the whole thing starting vibrating. Before fully realizing what was going on, my wildly inappropriate, unedited and obnoxious ringtone starting blaring from my purse.
"HEY! You're a crazy bitch but you (F-word) so good I'm on top of it and when I dream - I'm doin' you all night, scratches all down my back..."
I gasped and clumsily fumbled for my phone. I could feel Mrs. Brown's eyes on me; we weren't allowed to have phones at school, and I could essentially get a pink slip for having it on.
Greg was giggling next to me as I finally turned off my little pink flip phone.
"You should probably put that on silent, Holliann." He said coolly as I closed my purse and looked over at Mrs. Brown.
She sighed and shook her head, "I'll pretend that that didn't just happen."
I watched as she turned and went into her office. I was so humiliated, I couldn't even look at Greg. I finished printing my essay and hurried out of the library as fast as I could.
***
"So, what exactly are the plans for this weekend?" Laura asked quietly as she slipped me a piece of gum. We were in the library working on our English term paper; the biggest project of the year.
I shrugged, "Asia's having a Gay Pride sleepover, and we have to bring rainbow themed food. I've got rainbow m&m cookies."
"Nothing specific, just something rainbow?" Laura asked and I replied with a nod.
We went back to typing on our computers. We exchanged small words about the sleepover and about lunch today. I informed Laura that I'd be right back and went to use the bathroom. Because of the bomb threats that had gone on this year, I had to get a bathroom pass from Mrs. Brown before I could leave the room.
I really enjoyed to walk down the hallway alone. When I go to hotels, I like to wander around the hallways. I have always liked to do that.
I wandered into the bathroom and made sure my hair and make up looked fine in the mirror. I walked into the stall and as I closed the door, I found something that changed the rest of my day.
There was a drawing of a small building, and it said 'WHS' on it. Next to the building was a drawing of a bomb, and above it it said 'BOOM'.
I threw all of my books on the floor and jumped back. I had no idea what to do about this, so I ran out of the bathroom and down the hall.
I bolted into the principal's office and shut the door behind me. She looked at me as if I was a lunatic. I was panting dramatically.
"A bomb threat! There's a bomb threat in the girl's bathroom!"
She furrowed her brow and dropped her pen. She sighed loudly and stood up.
"Go to the guidance office, right now. Do not say word to anyone."
I nodded and left the office quickly. I stared at the floor as I walked past some other students. In the guidance office, the secretary and the school counselor were talking about the weather.
I strolled in and both of them stared at me. I sat down in a chair by the door and didn't say a word.
"Can I help you?" The counselor asked slowly after I didn't say a word.
I shook my head, "I can't tell you."
They both looked at each other and back at me, "What are you talking about?" The secretary asked.
"I can't say." I replied.
"Does it have anything to do with our safety?" The secretary asked. I nodded.
The counselor sighed and shut the door to her office, "This is confidential. You can tell me."
"I found a bomb threat." I blurted, "In the bathroom. Mrs. Metta told me not to say anything."
The counselor laughed, "She meant not to say anything to the students. You can tell us."
After I explained to them what I saw, I was instructed not to leave the room. I had to sit there for about twenty minutes until the alarm went off, and the school was evacuated.
As students cleared the school, they all exchanged words of anger towards who ever keeps putting on these threats. When this happens, the school is closed for the rest of the day, and every sporting event and club is postponed. It was really effecting the lives of students who had after school activities.
I met up with Laura and Felicia and told them what had happened. My purse and all of my belongings were still on the floor in that bathroom. The entire school walked to their evacuation locations; ours was a church down the road from the school. We played board games and ate bagged lunches all day that day.
I went into the testing room to see if I was able to donate. My iron level was great, my blood pressure was fine, I was perfectly able to donate.
I got all set up on a bed with a needle hanging from my arm. I was given a ball to squeeze. The nurse told me to relax. I sat there for a few minutes and bled into the bag. The nurse came back over to check on me.
"Oh, goodness!" She cried, "Your bag is full already." She checked the timer, "After only 4 and half minutes!"
She gauzed me up and escorted me to the table where everyone who already donated sat. I had to sit for twenty minutes and eat cookies and juice.
At the table were a few of my girl friends who were involved in the National Honor Society that was holding the event.
"How do you feel?" My friend Hannah asked, "You donated really fast."
I shrugged, "I feel fine. I don't feel any different."
"Okay, well if you do feel like you're going to faint just hit the bell that it's in the middle of the table." Hannah gestured to the bell that was located in the middle of the table.
We talked for a few minutes about school and the soccer game that was lost the night before. I looked at the clock and realized it was time for me to go.
"You don't have to leave," Hannah said, "This period is pretty much over with; you can hang out for a while."
I started to stand up, "No, I really should be.... going..."
I started sweating bullets. The room was spinning and my mind was going dark. Hannah must've noticed, because she gasped and hit the bell. As soon as she hit that bell, I passed out, hit my head on the table, and slunk to the floor.
I woke up a few minutes later with about eight people looking down on me. They were fanning my face and shoving a straw into my mouth. They were asking me how I felt and putting a washcloth on my forehead.
"You donated a pint way too fast." A man in scrubs said as he elevated my legs.
I realized then what had just happened.
I fainted in my high school library, in front of pretty much everybody.
***
I needed to get some things done so I walked to the library during my lunch period. My government essay was due the next period, and I had some editing to do.
The only two people in the library during this time was Greg, and the librarian Mrs. Brown.
Greg was the cutest guy in school. Although I've never been the kind to go for a boy like Greg, he was different. Not only was he movie-star handsome and incredibly smooth, he was also extremely humble and friendly.
He said hello to me as I walked past him and sat at a computer. It was silent in the library; the only noise was the zipping of the copy machine and the tip-tapping of keyboards. Greg was trying to make small talk with Mrs. Brown, but as she impatiently peered at him from above her wire-rimmed glasses, it was clear to me that she didn't have much time for small talk.
My purse was sitting on the computer table next to the monitor. Suddenly, a buzzing noise was coming from my purse, and the whole thing starting vibrating. Before fully realizing what was going on, my wildly inappropriate, unedited and obnoxious ringtone starting blaring from my purse.
"HEY! You're a crazy bitch but you (F-word) so good I'm on top of it and when I dream - I'm doin' you all night, scratches all down my back..."
I gasped and clumsily fumbled for my phone. I could feel Mrs. Brown's eyes on me; we weren't allowed to have phones at school, and I could essentially get a pink slip for having it on.
Greg was giggling next to me as I finally turned off my little pink flip phone.
"You should probably put that on silent, Holliann." He said coolly as I closed my purse and looked over at Mrs. Brown.
She sighed and shook her head, "I'll pretend that that didn't just happen."
I watched as she turned and went into her office. I was so humiliated, I couldn't even look at Greg. I finished printing my essay and hurried out of the library as fast as I could.
***
"So, what exactly are the plans for this weekend?" Laura asked quietly as she slipped me a piece of gum. We were in the library working on our English term paper; the biggest project of the year.
I shrugged, "Asia's having a Gay Pride sleepover, and we have to bring rainbow themed food. I've got rainbow m&m cookies."
"Nothing specific, just something rainbow?" Laura asked and I replied with a nod.
We went back to typing on our computers. We exchanged small words about the sleepover and about lunch today. I informed Laura that I'd be right back and went to use the bathroom. Because of the bomb threats that had gone on this year, I had to get a bathroom pass from Mrs. Brown before I could leave the room.
I really enjoyed to walk down the hallway alone. When I go to hotels, I like to wander around the hallways. I have always liked to do that.
I wandered into the bathroom and made sure my hair and make up looked fine in the mirror. I walked into the stall and as I closed the door, I found something that changed the rest of my day.
There was a drawing of a small building, and it said 'WHS' on it. Next to the building was a drawing of a bomb, and above it it said 'BOOM'.
I threw all of my books on the floor and jumped back. I had no idea what to do about this, so I ran out of the bathroom and down the hall.
I bolted into the principal's office and shut the door behind me. She looked at me as if I was a lunatic. I was panting dramatically.
"A bomb threat! There's a bomb threat in the girl's bathroom!"
She furrowed her brow and dropped her pen. She sighed loudly and stood up.
"Go to the guidance office, right now. Do not say word to anyone."
I nodded and left the office quickly. I stared at the floor as I walked past some other students. In the guidance office, the secretary and the school counselor were talking about the weather.
I strolled in and both of them stared at me. I sat down in a chair by the door and didn't say a word.
"Can I help you?" The counselor asked slowly after I didn't say a word.
I shook my head, "I can't tell you."
They both looked at each other and back at me, "What are you talking about?" The secretary asked.
"I can't say." I replied.
"Does it have anything to do with our safety?" The secretary asked. I nodded.
The counselor sighed and shut the door to her office, "This is confidential. You can tell me."
"I found a bomb threat." I blurted, "In the bathroom. Mrs. Metta told me not to say anything."
The counselor laughed, "She meant not to say anything to the students. You can tell us."
After I explained to them what I saw, I was instructed not to leave the room. I had to sit there for about twenty minutes until the alarm went off, and the school was evacuated.
As students cleared the school, they all exchanged words of anger towards who ever keeps putting on these threats. When this happens, the school is closed for the rest of the day, and every sporting event and club is postponed. It was really effecting the lives of students who had after school activities.
I met up with Laura and Felicia and told them what had happened. My purse and all of my belongings were still on the floor in that bathroom. The entire school walked to their evacuation locations; ours was a church down the road from the school. We played board games and ate bagged lunches all day that day.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)