Here is the poem I wrote! (That Mr. Burns didn't like!) I know. You know. Now read it!
The sun has set and night has come
But when the morrow shows its face what have I done?
Everything is just a blur,
I lie in bed but my mind’s a stir
Monotony, you are my foe
Because of you I’ll not have slept when I hear the crow
Can I make it through the night?
Something must give in this great blight
But how to begin?
To remove all the din
To end merely waiting for tomorrow to arrive
Stop beginning to sleep as the sun lights the sky
Finish starting things that have no end
And quit listening for the reprimand
To take a moment to sit and feel
Like a human and not a wheel
To stop turning for a little while
And take a break from work so vile
I want to learn, to realize
I must stop hearing words of the stern and not worry about the size
I’m over my head, I must confess
Jesus take me from this mess,
I’m choking, I’m drowning
So save me before the trumpet’s sounding
The sand is falling
The time is gone
But more stuff is calling
For me to “come on!”
I’d stop to cry,
But I’m on the fly
Like butter spread too thin on toast
I’ve nothing great to show or boast
And even now I’m wasting sleep
To pen and put my mind to ease
The morning is already near
I will collapse, it is my fear
To look back at what I’ve done
And frown into the setting sun
For life is brief, yes life is short
This boat soon sails for another port!
So all aboard or you’ll miss your ride
But I’ve already forgotten which side
To run and jump aboard the ship
Oh, I want to stop and sip
Some tea to moisten my dry lip
For my mouth is full
The world is dull
And still onward soars the gull
I must be quick! I must be fast!
To finish what’s begun at last
But on I trail, throughout the night
My sleeping time is out of sight
And yet I’ve nothing truly said
And so I can’t retire to bed
Oh, the dance continues in flurries
Without me it repeatedly hurries
It pulls me here
It pulls me there
My arms shall soon break from my chest
And maybe then it would be best
For I’d have to sit and wait
For Heaven to open its great gates
But it’d abandon pulling and start to shove
And I’d call for the Lord to send me a dove
To rescue me from this strange plight
And let me sleep another night
All is well, but the time is gone
I can already see the dawn
And there’s an old man sounding a gong
And the ritard at the end of a song
I’m tossing, I’m turning,
My brain is a-burning
The earth is a-blurring
My stomach a-churning
The beads of sweat form on my head
Wouldn’t it be better if I were dead?
Zoinks! I cannot sleep one wink!
Maybe I’ll wash dishes in the sink
And I still am on the brink
Of going, once for all, truly insane,
Everything I do is inane
The ceiling is ghostly
And now I am mostly
Certainly, truly, quite awake
Feeling the world beneath me shake
Egad! The sun’s risen
And now I must listen
To another day’s gabber
And many peoples’ blabber
For the alarm is blaring
And I am staring
At the start of a day
Without any play
The sun is here,
But my life is not near.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
No More Pictures
So the assignment was to write about a world in which creativity in all forms had been banned/outlawed/been deemed illegal. So no dancing, singing, painting/drawing, music, creative writing, etc. This is a story of a little girl who loves all of these things, and kind of how she finds out she can't do them anymore and how she views the world. My big sister really likes this one, and I'm pretty happy with it, so have a go. :)
I know I’m not supposed to, but I just can’t help it. I was born with it. No really, I was. When the doctor first handed me to my mother, I was already wailing at a perfect C# my father says. Mother says for him to be quiet about that. When I first became successful at sitting up, I began to clap my hands and giggle. Father says the clapping was in ¾ time. Mother says he was hearing things. When I was eating baby food for the first time, I spilled it out onto my high-chair and drew squiggly lines in it. Father laughed at me. Mother frowned at Father. Father says my first word was “la”, and I sang it all day long. Mother says that my first word was “papa”, not “la”. When I finally mastered walking, Father saying I began dancing and bouncing all around the house. Mother says that was just walking. When I was learning to write my name on my notebooks before the first day of school, I drew hearts, stars, and smiling faces all around it. Father said they were beautiful. Mother got me new notebooks. When we were writing sentences about our pets in school, I was so excited about it that I also wrote a story about a dog with fairy wings that made it so he could fly. I showed my parents when I got home. Father said he wanted to frame it and hang it on his wall. Mother said no.
The tales of such things go on and on, every time Father praising my song, picture, dance, or story, and mother being unhappy. I didn’t know why for a long time, but I do now. Those types of things are simply not allowed. I am not supposed to sing. I am not supposed to draw pictures. I am not supposed to dance. I am not supposed to write stories. I was sad when Mother told me this, but Father relieved my sorrow later that evening.
“Alice,” he endeared lovingly. “Whenever you want to sing, draw, dance, or write, you come to me, ok?” he said rather firmly. I nodded my head, but he wasn’t done. “Don’t tell Mother.” I nodded again. “It will be our little secret,” he finished and winked at me. We did our secret handshake, and I went to bed. As he tucked me in, I asked him why I wasn’t supposed to draw, sing, dance, or write stories. He replied that a silly man made a silly rule that was just plain ridiculous. I said “Oh.”
And so, very often I would go down to my Father’s home office and draw pictures for him on paper. The first picture I drew down there was of Father and me standing in front of a sunset. That was my favorite picture I ever drew. He also let me paint the walls, and they were continually changing. I molded sculptures out of clay for him and placed them all over the room. Whenever I wanted to try a new dance move, I would go there to practice. If I had the urge to sing, I would do it in the comfort of that room. He also had a piano keyboard hidden away in his closet, and he taught me how to play, always making sure I had the headphones on when I did. And when I wanted to write songs or stories, he let me have all the notebooks I needed. That office was my retreat. And Mother never went there. And I was very, vary, happy.
Until the day Father went to work and never came home. Mother told me he was killed by a drunk driver. I didn’t know what a drunk driver is, but I pictured it as a big bear with blood dripping from his awful fangs, and a three inch long claws about to grab a large stone and throw it at my Father. Mother then told me it was a person who was under the influence of alcohol who shouldn’t have been driving in a car. That made me sad, because I didn’t know what alcohol was either, but I pictured it as a raincloud hanging over a person who was very, very, sad. Rain clouds follow people, you see. People who are very, very, sad. The drunk driver couldn’t see the road because of the cloud and he ran into my Father. The drunk driver should have met with someone to make him happy first so he wouldn’t run into my Father, but I guess he didn’t. I told Mother I hoped he could become happy.
“The drunk driver?” she asked, amazed. “Don’t feel sorry for him. I hope he rots in a jail cell for the rest of his miserable life,” she replied angrily, and broke down in a torrent of tears. I feared that Mother would soon be a drunk driver too, under the influence of alcohol, and not able to drive. But no rain cloud appeared over her head. I knew Mother was very, very, sad, so you must have to be very, very, very, sad to be under the influence of alcohol. I felt bad for the drunk driver that drove into my Father. What could have happened to make him so sad?
After Father’s funeral, Mother began to clean up his home office. She had a fit when she saw the wall covered in paintings of sunsets, rainbows, princesses, rain clouds, shining suns, and butterflies. She whimpered at the pictures tacked up all over. She clapped a hand to her mouth at the clay statues placed all around the room. She clapped the other hand to her mouth as she saw the piano keyboard in the closet, and she cried when she saw all of the stories I had written. I tried to cheer her up with a dance, but that made her collapse onto the floor. I missed my Father very, very, much.
The next day, I woke up to the sound of ripping paper. I went down to see what it was, and saw mother ripping up all of my pictures and stories. I yelled for her to stop, but she just told me to stay out of this room from now on because I was a “bad girl”. Father always told me I was a “daddy’s girl”. I quickly snuck into the home office that day and retrieved the picture I had drawn of my Father and me standing by a sunset. I liked that picture very much. I hid it in my room away from Mother. I didn’t want her to tear that up, too.
The next time I looked into my Father’s old home office, the walls were just boring white, no longer covered in my pretty paintings of sunsets, rainbows, princesses, rain clouds, shining suns, and butterflies. Just boring white. Father would have hated that. All of my statues were broken up and sitting in a heap at the bottom of the waste basket. I felt sad, because Father had liked the statues. As I left the room, I started to hum song (very quietly, so Mother couldn’t hear) about Father and sunsets and pretty pictures, but lost my voice when I looked out the downstairs window into the backyard. I saw my Father’s piano keyboard all smashed into itty bitty pieces and lying on the pavement. Seeing it all broken made me start to cry. I would never be able to play on that piano keyboard ever, ever, again.
I put the picture of me and Father inside my sock drawer at the very, very, bottom, where Mother would never find it. I was no longer able to sing, dance, write, or draw. I became very, very, sad. I began writing a story about a little girl in a world far from our own, who liked very much to dance, sing, draw, and write. Nobody told her she couldn’t. Everyone told her how she was so good at singing, dancing, writing, and drawing. She was happy. I wrote about her everyday. When I finished it, I hid it in m sock drawer with my picture of Father and me.
A few weeks later, I had a babysitter. She seemed very nice, and so I showed her my room when Mother left. Then I showed her my notebook with the story of the drawing, dancing, writing, and singing girl from a far away world. She frowned, and her face turned very, very, white. She took it away from me. I screamed and cried and hid under my bed the rest of the night as she yelled at me to come out. I didn’t even come out to eat my supper. I stayed under the bed until Mother came home. I snuck down the stairs to hear the babysitter tell Mother about my notebook. But she didn’t. Mother paid her some money, and she left. Then I snuck up to bed.
The next morning, I went to look at my picture of Father and me, but it wasn’t there. I looked everywhere for it, but it wasn’t to be found. I wanted to cry, but couldn’t tell Mother why when she asked. I knew the babysitter had taken it, along with my story. That was the last time I ever wrote a story. That is when I fully realized that I would never be able to draw, sing, write, or dance ever again. I wish I could. It is all still inside me. It screams to be let out whenever the teachers at school tell me how I need to try harder in math, history, grammar, physical education, and geography. But I can’t. I’m no good at those things. All I am good at, all I ever want to do, must be kept bottled up inside. I’m very sad, very often. I don’t feel happy anymore. I try to draw, but my picture of Father and me comes flooding into my brain and I am reminded that I’m not supposed to draw because a mean person will steal my drawing away. That happy picture is no more. And neither is anything I ever had, or ever will, love. Without art, love is nothing. Love isn’t really love. And life without love isn’t really life at all.
I know I’m not supposed to, but I just can’t help it. I was born with it. No really, I was. When the doctor first handed me to my mother, I was already wailing at a perfect C# my father says. Mother says for him to be quiet about that. When I first became successful at sitting up, I began to clap my hands and giggle. Father says the clapping was in ¾ time. Mother says he was hearing things. When I was eating baby food for the first time, I spilled it out onto my high-chair and drew squiggly lines in it. Father laughed at me. Mother frowned at Father. Father says my first word was “la”, and I sang it all day long. Mother says that my first word was “papa”, not “la”. When I finally mastered walking, Father saying I began dancing and bouncing all around the house. Mother says that was just walking. When I was learning to write my name on my notebooks before the first day of school, I drew hearts, stars, and smiling faces all around it. Father said they were beautiful. Mother got me new notebooks. When we were writing sentences about our pets in school, I was so excited about it that I also wrote a story about a dog with fairy wings that made it so he could fly. I showed my parents when I got home. Father said he wanted to frame it and hang it on his wall. Mother said no.
The tales of such things go on and on, every time Father praising my song, picture, dance, or story, and mother being unhappy. I didn’t know why for a long time, but I do now. Those types of things are simply not allowed. I am not supposed to sing. I am not supposed to draw pictures. I am not supposed to dance. I am not supposed to write stories. I was sad when Mother told me this, but Father relieved my sorrow later that evening.
“Alice,” he endeared lovingly. “Whenever you want to sing, draw, dance, or write, you come to me, ok?” he said rather firmly. I nodded my head, but he wasn’t done. “Don’t tell Mother.” I nodded again. “It will be our little secret,” he finished and winked at me. We did our secret handshake, and I went to bed. As he tucked me in, I asked him why I wasn’t supposed to draw, sing, dance, or write stories. He replied that a silly man made a silly rule that was just plain ridiculous. I said “Oh.”
And so, very often I would go down to my Father’s home office and draw pictures for him on paper. The first picture I drew down there was of Father and me standing in front of a sunset. That was my favorite picture I ever drew. He also let me paint the walls, and they were continually changing. I molded sculptures out of clay for him and placed them all over the room. Whenever I wanted to try a new dance move, I would go there to practice. If I had the urge to sing, I would do it in the comfort of that room. He also had a piano keyboard hidden away in his closet, and he taught me how to play, always making sure I had the headphones on when I did. And when I wanted to write songs or stories, he let me have all the notebooks I needed. That office was my retreat. And Mother never went there. And I was very, vary, happy.
Until the day Father went to work and never came home. Mother told me he was killed by a drunk driver. I didn’t know what a drunk driver is, but I pictured it as a big bear with blood dripping from his awful fangs, and a three inch long claws about to grab a large stone and throw it at my Father. Mother then told me it was a person who was under the influence of alcohol who shouldn’t have been driving in a car. That made me sad, because I didn’t know what alcohol was either, but I pictured it as a raincloud hanging over a person who was very, very, sad. Rain clouds follow people, you see. People who are very, very, sad. The drunk driver couldn’t see the road because of the cloud and he ran into my Father. The drunk driver should have met with someone to make him happy first so he wouldn’t run into my Father, but I guess he didn’t. I told Mother I hoped he could become happy.
“The drunk driver?” she asked, amazed. “Don’t feel sorry for him. I hope he rots in a jail cell for the rest of his miserable life,” she replied angrily, and broke down in a torrent of tears. I feared that Mother would soon be a drunk driver too, under the influence of alcohol, and not able to drive. But no rain cloud appeared over her head. I knew Mother was very, very, sad, so you must have to be very, very, very, sad to be under the influence of alcohol. I felt bad for the drunk driver that drove into my Father. What could have happened to make him so sad?
After Father’s funeral, Mother began to clean up his home office. She had a fit when she saw the wall covered in paintings of sunsets, rainbows, princesses, rain clouds, shining suns, and butterflies. She whimpered at the pictures tacked up all over. She clapped a hand to her mouth at the clay statues placed all around the room. She clapped the other hand to her mouth as she saw the piano keyboard in the closet, and she cried when she saw all of the stories I had written. I tried to cheer her up with a dance, but that made her collapse onto the floor. I missed my Father very, very, much.
The next day, I woke up to the sound of ripping paper. I went down to see what it was, and saw mother ripping up all of my pictures and stories. I yelled for her to stop, but she just told me to stay out of this room from now on because I was a “bad girl”. Father always told me I was a “daddy’s girl”. I quickly snuck into the home office that day and retrieved the picture I had drawn of my Father and me standing by a sunset. I liked that picture very much. I hid it in my room away from Mother. I didn’t want her to tear that up, too.
The next time I looked into my Father’s old home office, the walls were just boring white, no longer covered in my pretty paintings of sunsets, rainbows, princesses, rain clouds, shining suns, and butterflies. Just boring white. Father would have hated that. All of my statues were broken up and sitting in a heap at the bottom of the waste basket. I felt sad, because Father had liked the statues. As I left the room, I started to hum song (very quietly, so Mother couldn’t hear) about Father and sunsets and pretty pictures, but lost my voice when I looked out the downstairs window into the backyard. I saw my Father’s piano keyboard all smashed into itty bitty pieces and lying on the pavement. Seeing it all broken made me start to cry. I would never be able to play on that piano keyboard ever, ever, again.
I put the picture of me and Father inside my sock drawer at the very, very, bottom, where Mother would never find it. I was no longer able to sing, dance, write, or draw. I became very, very, sad. I began writing a story about a little girl in a world far from our own, who liked very much to dance, sing, draw, and write. Nobody told her she couldn’t. Everyone told her how she was so good at singing, dancing, writing, and drawing. She was happy. I wrote about her everyday. When I finished it, I hid it in m sock drawer with my picture of Father and me.
A few weeks later, I had a babysitter. She seemed very nice, and so I showed her my room when Mother left. Then I showed her my notebook with the story of the drawing, dancing, writing, and singing girl from a far away world. She frowned, and her face turned very, very, white. She took it away from me. I screamed and cried and hid under my bed the rest of the night as she yelled at me to come out. I didn’t even come out to eat my supper. I stayed under the bed until Mother came home. I snuck down the stairs to hear the babysitter tell Mother about my notebook. But she didn’t. Mother paid her some money, and she left. Then I snuck up to bed.
The next morning, I went to look at my picture of Father and me, but it wasn’t there. I looked everywhere for it, but it wasn’t to be found. I wanted to cry, but couldn’t tell Mother why when she asked. I knew the babysitter had taken it, along with my story. That was the last time I ever wrote a story. That is when I fully realized that I would never be able to draw, sing, write, or dance ever again. I wish I could. It is all still inside me. It screams to be let out whenever the teachers at school tell me how I need to try harder in math, history, grammar, physical education, and geography. But I can’t. I’m no good at those things. All I am good at, all I ever want to do, must be kept bottled up inside. I’m very sad, very often. I don’t feel happy anymore. I try to draw, but my picture of Father and me comes flooding into my brain and I am reminded that I’m not supposed to draw because a mean person will steal my drawing away. That happy picture is no more. And neither is anything I ever had, or ever will, love. Without art, love is nothing. Love isn’t really love. And life without love isn’t really life at all.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Breathe in.
This is a story about the briefity of life, and how it passes by in just a breath. It shows how our desires change and grow over time. Each paragraph is an age, and each paragraph showcases a desire that is like a birthday wish. From age three, to the end of the girl's life.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. Three in all. Blow them out, don’t let sissy try. She’ll spit on the cake. Yummy cake. Chocolate cake? Let’s find out. Stick hand in cake? Yes. Then we’ll know, and mommy will give it to me and sissy. It’s chocolate cake. It’s very good. Mommy looks mad. Oh no. I hope I’m not in trouble.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. Six in all. Look around the room. There’s Bekah, she’s wearing a pink princess dress. It’s prettier than mine. Mine is purple, but I like pink best. Sabrina’s dress is green. It’s got an ugly white bow on it. The cake has a princess wearing purple though, just like me. Maybe purple is best after all. Yes, I think I like purple best after all. Maybe the inside of the cake will be purple, too.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. Ten in all. I’m a big girl now, double digits. Being ten will be exciting. My cake has flowers on it. I made them myself. Mommy helped, and hers look better than mine, but I still like them. There’s even a frog jumping on my cake! He’s a cute frog. Maybe this year I will be tall enough to go on the Lily Pads at the swimming pool. I hope so.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 14 in all. Middle school is boring, but there’s a cute boy in my math class who smiles at me. I told Sabrina about him, and she thinks he like me. She also said he’s on the basketball team. Oh, I wonder if he likes me?
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 16 in all. The cake has a picture of a car on it; the car Mom will buy for me if I get all As this semester. I know I will, but I’m nervous about my Algebra grade. Mrs. M is a stickler.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 18 in all. I’m done with high school in a month, and I’m off to college. College sounds scary. I’m going to the same school as my boyfriend, Brett. I look over at him, and he’s smiling. *Sigh*
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 20 in all. I feel so old, and I don’t like it. I thought I had my life all figured out, but man oh man was I off. I transferred schools after the first semester. Brett and I only lasted two months at college, before he dumped me for some stupid Freshman. Oh well. I’ll find someone new, someday.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 25 in all. I glance over at my fiancée. He’s smiling. It reminds me of years past, and beaus past. How stupid it all seems, the drama we went through. The heartbreaks and aches. I’m glad I found the one. But he’s going off to war, I hope he’ll be all right…
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 31 in all. The baby’s crying, and I might too. Mom’s trying to comfort her, but she won’t stop. I look over at my toddler, as she swipes a bite of frosting. Oh, I’m too tired to discipline. George will do it later. I just want to enjoy this while it lasts.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 42 in all. George, please take away Alexis’s cell phone. She’s texting that boy again. I just want a family night for once. Why is this so hard to get? George, Frances is playing on his Gameboy under the table. Can’t you make him behave for five minutes? I want a quiet evening.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 48 in all. Both my babies grew up and left me. Alexis never calls from college. I told Frances to write, I even bought him stationary and stamps. He doesn’t. I don’t want to lose them, I need to hear from them.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 52 in all. Alexis asked me to go wedding dress shopping with her. I could hardly believe it when she called me up! But George isn’t so happy. We’ve only met her fiancée once, when they visited for Christmas. Lord, I hope he’s an honorable man that will take care of my little girl.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 57 in all. Oh, little Chelsea got into the cake frosting. I can’t tell her no though, she’s so sweet. Alexis grabbed her. Frances is laughing, his girlfriend is too. It’s so nice having the family all together, but the visits are few and far between. I want the family to be closer.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 63 in all. Alexis called me on the phone today. Chelsea ran away from home. Oh, the poor dear. I don’t like the way she dresses at all. It’s all dark and scary, and even in pictures she rarely smiles. I wish she’d get over this phase and come home, poor Alexis is trying so hard.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 69 in all. I don’t think I can blow them all out at once. There are just so many, is this really how I should be wasting my breath? It’s so scarce already. Chelsea says she’ll help me. I smile, she’s such a nice girl when she comes to visit. Her little baby is very cute, but she won’t introduce me to her husband. In fact, I never even got wedding pictures…
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 75 in all. George is gone. Oh, how I miss him. Oh! I can’t bear it. Alexis and Frances comfort me, but it’s not the same. Oh, George.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 81 in all. This home is lonely. Everyone here seems so old. But, yes, a visitor! Chelsea, and she’s brought little Andrea. Oh, the sweetheart brought me a puzzle! Maybe they’ll stay a while and help me put it together.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 89 in all. The world is getting fuzzy, my eyesight is leaving. A boy came to visit today, he’s very young. I called him Frances, and he looked scared when I did. My little boy… why are afraid? Oh, my little boy, come close to me!
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
Look at the candles. 95 in all.
Breathe out.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Sock Monkey
So I hadn't posted anything for a while, and decided to take a break from my saddepressing stuff. I just got home from a super long dance rehearsal, and was tired but happy to be home. So here it is. Inspired by my sister's sock monkey, who was sitting in the corner of this room.
The sock monkey with a rip on his toe sat fresh and happy in his package. He was next to rows and rows of his identical brothers, (minus the rip) all with the same red mouths and slightly pointed downward eyebrows that would make them seem sad if looked at from a certain angle. The red yarn on their hats was vibrant and clean, eager to be braided or mussed. Eager for a child.
They all were stuffed into boxes very close together, close enough to whisper to each other. “Where are we going?” “When will we find our homes?” “Will my child be young or old?” pressed the anxious queries. The sock monkey with the rip on his toe listened intently to these queries, but made none of his own.
They were taken out of the boxes, and placed on empty shelves. The sock monkey with the ripped toe saw that only a few of his brothers where still with him. He was sad, but the sadness quickly left when the children came.
“Oh look! Mommy!” shouted a little girl.
“No honey, not that one. That’s got a hole in his foot.” The mother picked up the sock monkey next to him. They left.
“Hey Dad! Can I get one?” asked a little boy a few hours later. He grabbed the sock monkey off the shelf, and threw him in the cart.
“Let me see that,” said the dad. “Oh, I used to have one of these! But no, Jessie, this one has a rip.” They threw the sock monkey to the back of the shelf, and his head hit the wall. If you looked at him now, his eyes definitely looked sad with his downward facing eyebrows.
Time went on, and dust gathered on the sock monkey. He had given up hope, and all his brothers had gone away long ago. He sat in a pile of mismatched stuffed animals now, including a baby drool stained horse, a scary looking Chihuahua puppy, and a one-eyed frog.
They sat, the mismatched bunch, and waited. Sometimes at night, they talked to each other, telling of their hopes and dreams.
“I want to be adopted by a little girl,” said the horse.
“I want to go to a home with a real dog,” said the Chihuahua puppy.
“Ribbit,” said the frog.
The sock monkey didn’t say anything.
Then one day, a store employee picked up the mismatched group and threw them in a box.
“No! We’re being thrown away!” crowed the horse.
“Put us back! Put us back!” pleaded the Chihuahua puppy.
“Ribbit!” said the frog.
The sock monkey didn’t say anything.
But then, another store employee started conversing with the one holding the box. They talked for a while, and the second employee took the box. She carried it all the way to the front, and checked out all four stuffed animals.
They arrived at her house, and she brought them gently into a room. In the room, were almost a hundred other mismatched stuffed animals! The baby drool stained horse was put by a three-legged goat and a lamb that was missing a few patches of fur, the scary looking Chihuahua puppy sat with a Labrador dog with too big of a head and a wolf whose button that used to make him howl at the moon had broken, and the one-eyed frog relaxed next to a butterfly without antennae and a toad with realistically slimy skin.
The sock monkey was lovingly placed on a shelf next to a clown without a red nose and a jack-in-the-box that didn’t spring until three whole spins after his song ended.
And suddenly, the sock monkey’s ripped toe made him feel surprisingly at home among his new friends.
“This is wonderful,” the horse said contentedly.
“I have met someone else that is also scary, as I am,” said the Chihuahua puppy.
“Ribbit,” said the frog with a happy sigh.
The sock monkey didn’t say anything, but he smiled. And his eyebrows didn’t make him look sad anymore.
The sock monkey with a rip on his toe sat fresh and happy in his package. He was next to rows and rows of his identical brothers, (minus the rip) all with the same red mouths and slightly pointed downward eyebrows that would make them seem sad if looked at from a certain angle. The red yarn on their hats was vibrant and clean, eager to be braided or mussed. Eager for a child.
They all were stuffed into boxes very close together, close enough to whisper to each other. “Where are we going?” “When will we find our homes?” “Will my child be young or old?” pressed the anxious queries. The sock monkey with the rip on his toe listened intently to these queries, but made none of his own.
They were taken out of the boxes, and placed on empty shelves. The sock monkey with the ripped toe saw that only a few of his brothers where still with him. He was sad, but the sadness quickly left when the children came.
“Oh look! Mommy!” shouted a little girl.
“No honey, not that one. That’s got a hole in his foot.” The mother picked up the sock monkey next to him. They left.
“Hey Dad! Can I get one?” asked a little boy a few hours later. He grabbed the sock monkey off the shelf, and threw him in the cart.
“Let me see that,” said the dad. “Oh, I used to have one of these! But no, Jessie, this one has a rip.” They threw the sock monkey to the back of the shelf, and his head hit the wall. If you looked at him now, his eyes definitely looked sad with his downward facing eyebrows.
Time went on, and dust gathered on the sock monkey. He had given up hope, and all his brothers had gone away long ago. He sat in a pile of mismatched stuffed animals now, including a baby drool stained horse, a scary looking Chihuahua puppy, and a one-eyed frog.
They sat, the mismatched bunch, and waited. Sometimes at night, they talked to each other, telling of their hopes and dreams.
“I want to be adopted by a little girl,” said the horse.
“I want to go to a home with a real dog,” said the Chihuahua puppy.
“Ribbit,” said the frog.
The sock monkey didn’t say anything.
Then one day, a store employee picked up the mismatched group and threw them in a box.
“No! We’re being thrown away!” crowed the horse.
“Put us back! Put us back!” pleaded the Chihuahua puppy.
“Ribbit!” said the frog.
The sock monkey didn’t say anything.
But then, another store employee started conversing with the one holding the box. They talked for a while, and the second employee took the box. She carried it all the way to the front, and checked out all four stuffed animals.
They arrived at her house, and she brought them gently into a room. In the room, were almost a hundred other mismatched stuffed animals! The baby drool stained horse was put by a three-legged goat and a lamb that was missing a few patches of fur, the scary looking Chihuahua puppy sat with a Labrador dog with too big of a head and a wolf whose button that used to make him howl at the moon had broken, and the one-eyed frog relaxed next to a butterfly without antennae and a toad with realistically slimy skin.
The sock monkey was lovingly placed on a shelf next to a clown without a red nose and a jack-in-the-box that didn’t spring until three whole spins after his song ended.
And suddenly, the sock monkey’s ripped toe made him feel surprisingly at home among his new friends.
“This is wonderful,” the horse said contentedly.
“I have met someone else that is also scary, as I am,” said the Chihuahua puppy.
“Ribbit,” said the frog with a happy sigh.
The sock monkey didn’t say anything, but he smiled. And his eyebrows didn’t make him look sad anymore.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Avalon
And so, my depressingly sad final paper for writing 2. Enjoy, or... don't I guess. It's supposed to be about moving on... I call it: "Avalon"
Avalon hadn’t been to school in a week. As far as she was concerned, she wouldn’t be going back—ever. Six days had gone by, and she still had a jaded gloom painted across her face. She didn’t react to anything, and she wouldn’t say a word. She didn’t come to the table for meals, and she hadn’t eaten anything her parents or siblings knew of.
She had stayed in her room the first three days—except to go to the funeral. Her mother couldn’t believe she had even gone, but she didn’t try to stop her. She thought it might help bring closure. It hadn’t.
On the fourth day, her mother came home from the grocery store to find her sitting on the back porch, just staring at the lake. She tried to talk to her, to comfort her, but she didn’t react. She didn’t push her away, but she didn’t even acknowledge her presence. She just sat and stared.
On the fifth day her parents begged her to eat something. She wouldn’t. She was in a state of mind all her own, with no sense of time or people around her. She must have been starving, because her face grew sallow and thin, her cheeks sunken and ashy.
Her mother cried every few hours, at the sight of her hallow child. Her dad tried to ignore it. Her siblings shrank away into their rooms or friends’ houses to get away from it.
Her phone, which was still plugged into its charger where it had been for six days, flashed red every two seconds. Every few hours it would buzz to signal a new message or phone call. At current, there were 59 unread texts, 36 missed calls, and 28 new voicemails.
Alone in her room, Avalon would either sit in a curled up position in the corner, or lie face down on her bed. No one ever heard her cry, but her eyes were always red. If she did cry, it was silent and painful.
Some would say she hadn’t accepted it yet, that it hadn’t sunk in. Her mother thought she was dying, and maybe she was. How long could the body survive in such a state? Some would even question if the mind was working. It was. That’s all it did, day and night. It searched from every angle, looking for a way out of its misery, looking for peace, but not finding it.
Finally, the morning of the sixth day, her mother decided that she’d had enough. She stormed into her room, threw Avalon’s books into her backpack, and shoved her into the bathroom to shower. Her mother had feared she wouldn’t, but she did, the water pouring for almost an hour. She finally came out, hair dripping, but wearing clean clothes nonetheless.
Her mother tried to get her into the car, talking to her and shoving her gently, but Avalon wouldn’t acknowledge her attempts. Just as she was about to threaten calling her father, Avalon got up and walked into the garage and entered the car. Her mother, exasperated, grabbed her backpack and followed her.
They drove in silence, her mother sick of repeating her sympathies. They pulled up to the school, and her mother waited for her to get out. She let five minutes go by, and then began to calmly instruct her to get out of the car. She didn’t.
Five minutes of being ignored, and her mother burst into tears.
“Avalon, I can’t do this anymore!” she sobbed. “Get out of the car. Go to school. Live your life—” she choked.
Avalon got out of the car. Her mother threw her backpack after her. She grabbed one strap and dragged it forward towards the door. Her mother waited for her to go inside. She stopped at the door, and sat her tall figure down. She leaned against the wall, and tilted her head back.
Her mother made a phone call and drove away. Two minutes later, the school’s principle came out. He kindly asked Avalon to go inside. He held the door open for her. She stood up, grabbed her backpack, trudged into the hallway, and sat heavily down again.
“Avalon,” he said sternly. “It’s second period. You have Spanish with Mrs. Gurney. Go to class, Avalon.” She gave no response, as was expected, and altered the gaze of her clouded blue eyes to the tile pattern on the floor. “Avalon, I know you can hear me. Go to Spanish class now.” Avalon didn’t. The principle gave up.
And so did the vice principle, guidance counselor, and school nurse. Avalon wasn’t moving.
The bell rang. The hall was flooded with students.
“Avalon?” called a girl. “Avalon!” She ran over to her side, and crouched down to look her in the eye. Avalon wouldn’t meet her gaze. “We’ve missed you…I’ve missed you… I came over; your mom wouldn’t let me see you… I called, I texted, why didn’t you answer?” Another girl came over.
“Avalon! Are you… feeling better?” she asked apprehensively.
“Hey! Avalon? You’re back!” a boy shouted.
All of the noise flooded Avalon’s ears; she couldn’t comprehend the words. The tile floor she had been staring at was covered with bags and feet now. She looked down at her own shoes. The people kept talking, but as they did their voices molded into one high-pitched ringing that made Avalon’s pale face twitch around the eyes, ever so slightly. She let her dark brown hair fall and cover her face. Minutes must have passed, and the bell must have rung, because the noise faded and the faces left. All but two. A boy and the first girl.
The principle started walking towards them, and the boy stood up to leave.
“Hey, I’m glad you came,” he said before bolting down the hall.
The principle told the girl to go to class. She said no. He looked at her, brow furrowed at this short blond girl, but she said no again, thin lips set in their convictions. He sighed heavily, and left.
The girl waited until the principle was out of sight, and she took a breath.
“Avalon, if… if you want someone to talk to…” The words hung in the air like fog over a lake in the morning. “You—you look terrible.” The words weren’t meant as an insult, the compassion was genuine. The girl’s hazel eyes scrunched into a squint, as she thought carefully over her next choice of words. “Avalon, if you don’t want to…I can’t blame you… I just—I’m waiting, when you’re ready. I know you might think it’s soon, but healing can’t come without some acceptance.”
They sat in silence for a long while, enough time for the bell to ring again and the masses of students to file by and stop to see her. She didn’t seem to notice any of this. When they had all left again, the girl was still there. She stared up at the ceiling, down at the floor, and over at Avalon.
“Avalon, I can’t see you like this! It’s killing me. You think I don’t feel it too? You think I’m not affected by everything? Avalon! At least look at me!”
And for the first time in over six days, Avalon did three things. She looked over at the girl and made eye contact through the haze, and started to cry. And she spoke her first words since the night it all happened.
“Not now.”
They were barely above a whisper, but the girl heard them.
“Tonight, Avalon. Tonight.”
Avalon nodded.
~*~
Avalon went home with the girl that day after school. Her poor mother must have been worried sick, as she didn’t have her cell phone and didn’t call to let her know. She still wasn’t talking, and hadn’t said anything since her two words with the girl.
“Avalon, it’s good to see you!” the girl’s mother exclaimed. “Clare, you didn’t tell me she was back in school.” Clare shot a darkened glance and head shake at her mother who quieted.
Once at Clare’s house, the two girls went to her room. Clare sat on her bed, and Avalon sat on the floor leaning against the dresser.
“Now?” Clare asked. Avalon shook her head. Clare frowned, her tiny pink lips pursing anxiously, and opened her backpack. She took out a thick envelope and tossed it at Avalon. “That’s your homework for the past week. I’ve been collecting it for you.”
Avalon looked down at the envelope, and pulled it toward herself. She didn’t open it, but held it in her hand. Clare began working on her own homework, and the time dragged on.
“Now?” Clare asked after a few hours. Avalon shook her head again, and Clare sighed. “Then you’re eating something.” She left and came back with a bowl of soup a few minutes later, and held it out to Avalon. After a moment of waiting for her to take it, she spoke. “Avalon, take it.” Like an obedient puppy, Avalon accepted the bowl. “Now eat.”
Avalon did, and realizing of her extreme hunger from the six day fast, she finished it in less than two minutes.
“Now,” Clare said, and it wasn’t a question this time.
Avalon’s lip quivered and her eye twitched, before she replied. “Not here.”
Clare stood up, took Avalon by the hand, and led her out of the room and outside. They walked into a garden, and settled near a fountain. Clare sat, and Avalon followed.
“Avalon,” Clare began slowly. At that moment, the trigger was somehow set off and the tears came in great streams down Avalon’s face. She tried to stop, but couldn’t control it, and the torrents fell. She buried her face in her hands, but it did no good to staunch the flow. As Clare watched, a silent tear rolled down her own cheek, and she put her arm around Avalon. Avalon shut down, and she collapsed into a heap in Clare’s arms.
Time passed, but the sadness still flowed. When her eyes had finally run out of tears to cry, Clare gently let her go. She went into the house and came back with a glass of water, and after she had fully calmed down, Avalon drank it eagerly.
~*~
“I don’t know what happened, nobody does. But they’ll figure it out, I know they will. I can’t imagine what motivated this; she was so good to everyone. Who’d hate her that much?” Clare stopped, afraid to go to fast. “The police think it might have been random,” she tried. “You couldn’t have done anything, I know it and so do you. If you, for some unexplainable reason, blame yourself, stop. You weren’t there, you left before it happened. You couldn’t have stopped it.”
Avalon was shaking her head, but she didn’t say anything. Clare looked confused.
“You don’t, do you? Blame yourself, I mean.”
Avalon’s head stopped shaking, and she sputtered out an answer. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Avalon, it’s just me. Tell me the truth.”
“Yes…”
“Yes you do?”
“Yes.”
“Why? It was someone’s fault, all right, but it wasn’t yours. You weren’t there—but someone was, and they’ll catch that person, Avalon.”
“I was there,” she choked, and the tears sprung anew.
“You were not there, Avalon… You left a half hour before it happened. And don’t even try to blame yourself for not staying, you had no reason to—” Clare said firmly.
“No, no, I was,” Avalon stammered amidst the tears. Her incomprehensible words tumbled out in a flood, and Clare looked confused.
“What do you mean you were there?” Clare questioned after a moment. “You were at home. In your room. Doing homework. Your mom said so, and so did your brother. You weren’t anywhere near her, Av.”
“I watched it, Clare. I was there.”
“Avalon, slow down. How were you there?”
“We were studying out by the lake, and I had to go,” Avalon started, voice shaking. “And, and I left to walk home.”
“Exactly. You left. You had to be home; your mom would have called you if you stayed and you would have left anyway.”
“That-that’s not it…” Avalon stammered. “When-when I got the-there, I-I realized I’d forgotten my English folder, and-and I went back to get it. I grabbed it, and I saw…”
“Saw… who did you see? Who was it? Avalon, you have to tell me!” exclaimed Clare, eyes wide open.
“Vi,” shuttered Avalon.
“I know Violet was there, but who was it? Who was with her?” Clare demanded.
“No one…” whispered Avalon.
“So you didn’t see?”
“I saw,” breathed Avalon, words failing her.
“Did anyone come up while you were there? Did you see who it was? What happened? Did you know him?”
“No, Clare, no one was there…”
“Then you didn’t see what happened,” shrugged Clare.
“No, Clare I saw!” cried out Avalon.
“Saw what? Saw her? You couldn’t have seen what happened if there was no one there, obviously. Did you see anyone on your way back home? Anyone suspicious? Did you, did you see them shoot?”
“Yes,” admitted Avalon.
“Who was it then?”
“Vi,” she faltered. Her eyes pleaded with Clare to stop the questions, and Clare’s eyes filled with tears.
“Violet? Violet shot the gun?” Avalon was quivering all over now, and the tears were streaming down her hot cheeks. “Vi—are you sure? Are you absolutely certain?”
Avalon nodded furiously despite her shaking body.
“Vi… I… I didn’t know…” Clare stopped. Her heart beat faster, and her mind raced. A tear slid down her face, and more were soon to join its number.
“But I did, Clare. I did! I just never thought…” she couldn’t finish.
The sun set on the girls, and their tear streaked faces gleaming in the light. The silence soon became unbearable, though, and Clare interrupted it with a thought she had been fostering in the quiet.
“But… But if Violet shot the gun… Why weren’t her fingerprints on it? And why was it just out of her reach?”
Avalon sat in the silence, face towards the falling sun, as if mustering the courage to answer the painful question.
“Because I moved the gun.” Clare’s face went paler than she had thought it could, and she was speechless. Saying the words seemed to bring a bit of peace to Avalon’s stricken face, but you could see the hurt and secrets built up still. “I wiped it down and moved it. I—I don’t know how, I don’t even remember if I wiped it down good, but I guess I did because…”
Clare tried to talk, but nothing came out. She waited, pondering her thoughts, amazed at the reality of the situation.
“So… are your prints on the gun then?” she asked hopeful of a rejection.
Avalon nodded, and sighed slightly. She dug her toe into the moist earth of the garden. Clare’s face scrunched up, and she burst into a fit.
“Are you mental? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Messing with a crime scene—drastically modifying it—removing evidence? Those are probably all felonies. Not to mention—if your prints are on the-the mur-murder weapon, when they get around to fingerprinting the family and friends, they’ll know, Avalon, and they’ll think… things. They’ll think you killed her! I believe you, only because I know you’re a terrible liar around me, and you don’t own a gun, and… you really cared about Vi… But the police don’t know any of that, and even if they did, it wouldn’t matter.”
“I… I know, Clare. And that’s why I did it.” Clare pounded the ground with her fist, and it sunk into the dirt. She pounded them again, breaking the stems of the flowers in the process. Their petals lay in a pathetic pile being buried by the repetitious hammering. Finally, exasperated, she drew her hands up to her face and smudged dirt in her eyes.
“You can’t do this, Avalon! I won’t… I won’t let you!” The frustration in her voice was evident. Just when she’d thought she was healing the pain of the loss, it was being ripped ruthlessly open again, leaving the wounds exposed and bleeding. “Why?”
“Because it’s my fault,” Avalon said, surprisingly calm. She looked into the sunset, eyes squinting in the light. A peace had found its way over her eyes, as if it would somehow be able to pay penitence for its failure.
“How? You didn’t pull the trigger, did you? Or maybe… maybe you did?” she spat incredulously.
“No. But I didn’t stop it from being pulled, did I?”
“How could you have?” Clare nearly shouted, not caring who heard anymore.
“She told me, Clare. She told me she was going too…”
“There was no way you could know she meant it,” choked Clare.
“I should have… I should have been better, I should have taken her to a counselor, told her parents, but I didn’t want to betray her trust like that…”
“Well it’s over now, she’s dead, and you can’t change that,” screeched Clare, emotions in turmoil. Avalon’s face was bent in intense concentration—as if she thought she knew the answer but was afraid of it.
“Exactly. I can’t change it,” she whispered quietly.
“So move on! Get a good lawyer, I don’t know.”
“I can’t. I deserve the punishment…”
“But you didn’t do anything,” Clare bawled.
Avalon’s face wrinkled and her wet cheeks moisture was renewed feverishly.
“I could’ve.”
Clare sat, crying, refusing to respond to this reply. She couldn’t accept it, she couldn’t understand. The thoughts sprang from anger at Violet, frustration with Avalon, exasperation with herself, sympathy for Violet, depression with Avalon. It overwhelmed her and spilled over the sides.
“I could’ve, and I didn’t. Not soon enough,” Avalon concluded.
~*~
“What does the defendant plead?” the judge asked. Avalon’s eyes flew up to the judge’s stern glare, then back at her hands, wringing in her lap. Her lawyer gave one last pitiful glance towards Avalon, then became stone cold as he faced the judge.
“Guilty.”
Clare leaned forward in her seat, far in the back row, and her eyes filled with hopeless tears at the magnitude of confusion and guilt that crowded her, the same confusion that had stolen the life of a friend, and was now about to ruin the life of another.
Avalon hadn’t been to school in a week. As far as she was concerned, she wouldn’t be going back—ever. Six days had gone by, and she still had a jaded gloom painted across her face. She didn’t react to anything, and she wouldn’t say a word. She didn’t come to the table for meals, and she hadn’t eaten anything her parents or siblings knew of.
She had stayed in her room the first three days—except to go to the funeral. Her mother couldn’t believe she had even gone, but she didn’t try to stop her. She thought it might help bring closure. It hadn’t.
On the fourth day, her mother came home from the grocery store to find her sitting on the back porch, just staring at the lake. She tried to talk to her, to comfort her, but she didn’t react. She didn’t push her away, but she didn’t even acknowledge her presence. She just sat and stared.
On the fifth day her parents begged her to eat something. She wouldn’t. She was in a state of mind all her own, with no sense of time or people around her. She must have been starving, because her face grew sallow and thin, her cheeks sunken and ashy.
Her mother cried every few hours, at the sight of her hallow child. Her dad tried to ignore it. Her siblings shrank away into their rooms or friends’ houses to get away from it.
Her phone, which was still plugged into its charger where it had been for six days, flashed red every two seconds. Every few hours it would buzz to signal a new message or phone call. At current, there were 59 unread texts, 36 missed calls, and 28 new voicemails.
Alone in her room, Avalon would either sit in a curled up position in the corner, or lie face down on her bed. No one ever heard her cry, but her eyes were always red. If she did cry, it was silent and painful.
Some would say she hadn’t accepted it yet, that it hadn’t sunk in. Her mother thought she was dying, and maybe she was. How long could the body survive in such a state? Some would even question if the mind was working. It was. That’s all it did, day and night. It searched from every angle, looking for a way out of its misery, looking for peace, but not finding it.
Finally, the morning of the sixth day, her mother decided that she’d had enough. She stormed into her room, threw Avalon’s books into her backpack, and shoved her into the bathroom to shower. Her mother had feared she wouldn’t, but she did, the water pouring for almost an hour. She finally came out, hair dripping, but wearing clean clothes nonetheless.
Her mother tried to get her into the car, talking to her and shoving her gently, but Avalon wouldn’t acknowledge her attempts. Just as she was about to threaten calling her father, Avalon got up and walked into the garage and entered the car. Her mother, exasperated, grabbed her backpack and followed her.
They drove in silence, her mother sick of repeating her sympathies. They pulled up to the school, and her mother waited for her to get out. She let five minutes go by, and then began to calmly instruct her to get out of the car. She didn’t.
Five minutes of being ignored, and her mother burst into tears.
“Avalon, I can’t do this anymore!” she sobbed. “Get out of the car. Go to school. Live your life—” she choked.
Avalon got out of the car. Her mother threw her backpack after her. She grabbed one strap and dragged it forward towards the door. Her mother waited for her to go inside. She stopped at the door, and sat her tall figure down. She leaned against the wall, and tilted her head back.
Her mother made a phone call and drove away. Two minutes later, the school’s principle came out. He kindly asked Avalon to go inside. He held the door open for her. She stood up, grabbed her backpack, trudged into the hallway, and sat heavily down again.
“Avalon,” he said sternly. “It’s second period. You have Spanish with Mrs. Gurney. Go to class, Avalon.” She gave no response, as was expected, and altered the gaze of her clouded blue eyes to the tile pattern on the floor. “Avalon, I know you can hear me. Go to Spanish class now.” Avalon didn’t. The principle gave up.
And so did the vice principle, guidance counselor, and school nurse. Avalon wasn’t moving.
The bell rang. The hall was flooded with students.
“Avalon?” called a girl. “Avalon!” She ran over to her side, and crouched down to look her in the eye. Avalon wouldn’t meet her gaze. “We’ve missed you…I’ve missed you… I came over; your mom wouldn’t let me see you… I called, I texted, why didn’t you answer?” Another girl came over.
“Avalon! Are you… feeling better?” she asked apprehensively.
“Hey! Avalon? You’re back!” a boy shouted.
All of the noise flooded Avalon’s ears; she couldn’t comprehend the words. The tile floor she had been staring at was covered with bags and feet now. She looked down at her own shoes. The people kept talking, but as they did their voices molded into one high-pitched ringing that made Avalon’s pale face twitch around the eyes, ever so slightly. She let her dark brown hair fall and cover her face. Minutes must have passed, and the bell must have rung, because the noise faded and the faces left. All but two. A boy and the first girl.
The principle started walking towards them, and the boy stood up to leave.
“Hey, I’m glad you came,” he said before bolting down the hall.
The principle told the girl to go to class. She said no. He looked at her, brow furrowed at this short blond girl, but she said no again, thin lips set in their convictions. He sighed heavily, and left.
The girl waited until the principle was out of sight, and she took a breath.
“Avalon, if… if you want someone to talk to…” The words hung in the air like fog over a lake in the morning. “You—you look terrible.” The words weren’t meant as an insult, the compassion was genuine. The girl’s hazel eyes scrunched into a squint, as she thought carefully over her next choice of words. “Avalon, if you don’t want to…I can’t blame you… I just—I’m waiting, when you’re ready. I know you might think it’s soon, but healing can’t come without some acceptance.”
They sat in silence for a long while, enough time for the bell to ring again and the masses of students to file by and stop to see her. She didn’t seem to notice any of this. When they had all left again, the girl was still there. She stared up at the ceiling, down at the floor, and over at Avalon.
“Avalon, I can’t see you like this! It’s killing me. You think I don’t feel it too? You think I’m not affected by everything? Avalon! At least look at me!”
And for the first time in over six days, Avalon did three things. She looked over at the girl and made eye contact through the haze, and started to cry. And she spoke her first words since the night it all happened.
“Not now.”
They were barely above a whisper, but the girl heard them.
“Tonight, Avalon. Tonight.”
Avalon nodded.
~*~
Avalon went home with the girl that day after school. Her poor mother must have been worried sick, as she didn’t have her cell phone and didn’t call to let her know. She still wasn’t talking, and hadn’t said anything since her two words with the girl.
“Avalon, it’s good to see you!” the girl’s mother exclaimed. “Clare, you didn’t tell me she was back in school.” Clare shot a darkened glance and head shake at her mother who quieted.
Once at Clare’s house, the two girls went to her room. Clare sat on her bed, and Avalon sat on the floor leaning against the dresser.
“Now?” Clare asked. Avalon shook her head. Clare frowned, her tiny pink lips pursing anxiously, and opened her backpack. She took out a thick envelope and tossed it at Avalon. “That’s your homework for the past week. I’ve been collecting it for you.”
Avalon looked down at the envelope, and pulled it toward herself. She didn’t open it, but held it in her hand. Clare began working on her own homework, and the time dragged on.
“Now?” Clare asked after a few hours. Avalon shook her head again, and Clare sighed. “Then you’re eating something.” She left and came back with a bowl of soup a few minutes later, and held it out to Avalon. After a moment of waiting for her to take it, she spoke. “Avalon, take it.” Like an obedient puppy, Avalon accepted the bowl. “Now eat.”
Avalon did, and realizing of her extreme hunger from the six day fast, she finished it in less than two minutes.
“Now,” Clare said, and it wasn’t a question this time.
Avalon’s lip quivered and her eye twitched, before she replied. “Not here.”
Clare stood up, took Avalon by the hand, and led her out of the room and outside. They walked into a garden, and settled near a fountain. Clare sat, and Avalon followed.
“Avalon,” Clare began slowly. At that moment, the trigger was somehow set off and the tears came in great streams down Avalon’s face. She tried to stop, but couldn’t control it, and the torrents fell. She buried her face in her hands, but it did no good to staunch the flow. As Clare watched, a silent tear rolled down her own cheek, and she put her arm around Avalon. Avalon shut down, and she collapsed into a heap in Clare’s arms.
Time passed, but the sadness still flowed. When her eyes had finally run out of tears to cry, Clare gently let her go. She went into the house and came back with a glass of water, and after she had fully calmed down, Avalon drank it eagerly.
~*~
“I don’t know what happened, nobody does. But they’ll figure it out, I know they will. I can’t imagine what motivated this; she was so good to everyone. Who’d hate her that much?” Clare stopped, afraid to go to fast. “The police think it might have been random,” she tried. “You couldn’t have done anything, I know it and so do you. If you, for some unexplainable reason, blame yourself, stop. You weren’t there, you left before it happened. You couldn’t have stopped it.”
Avalon was shaking her head, but she didn’t say anything. Clare looked confused.
“You don’t, do you? Blame yourself, I mean.”
Avalon’s head stopped shaking, and she sputtered out an answer. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Avalon, it’s just me. Tell me the truth.”
“Yes…”
“Yes you do?”
“Yes.”
“Why? It was someone’s fault, all right, but it wasn’t yours. You weren’t there—but someone was, and they’ll catch that person, Avalon.”
“I was there,” she choked, and the tears sprung anew.
“You were not there, Avalon… You left a half hour before it happened. And don’t even try to blame yourself for not staying, you had no reason to—” Clare said firmly.
“No, no, I was,” Avalon stammered amidst the tears. Her incomprehensible words tumbled out in a flood, and Clare looked confused.
“What do you mean you were there?” Clare questioned after a moment. “You were at home. In your room. Doing homework. Your mom said so, and so did your brother. You weren’t anywhere near her, Av.”
“I watched it, Clare. I was there.”
“Avalon, slow down. How were you there?”
“We were studying out by the lake, and I had to go,” Avalon started, voice shaking. “And, and I left to walk home.”
“Exactly. You left. You had to be home; your mom would have called you if you stayed and you would have left anyway.”
“That-that’s not it…” Avalon stammered. “When-when I got the-there, I-I realized I’d forgotten my English folder, and-and I went back to get it. I grabbed it, and I saw…”
“Saw… who did you see? Who was it? Avalon, you have to tell me!” exclaimed Clare, eyes wide open.
“Vi,” shuttered Avalon.
“I know Violet was there, but who was it? Who was with her?” Clare demanded.
“No one…” whispered Avalon.
“So you didn’t see?”
“I saw,” breathed Avalon, words failing her.
“Did anyone come up while you were there? Did you see who it was? What happened? Did you know him?”
“No, Clare, no one was there…”
“Then you didn’t see what happened,” shrugged Clare.
“No, Clare I saw!” cried out Avalon.
“Saw what? Saw her? You couldn’t have seen what happened if there was no one there, obviously. Did you see anyone on your way back home? Anyone suspicious? Did you, did you see them shoot?”
“Yes,” admitted Avalon.
“Who was it then?”
“Vi,” she faltered. Her eyes pleaded with Clare to stop the questions, and Clare’s eyes filled with tears.
“Violet? Violet shot the gun?” Avalon was quivering all over now, and the tears were streaming down her hot cheeks. “Vi—are you sure? Are you absolutely certain?”
Avalon nodded furiously despite her shaking body.
“Vi… I… I didn’t know…” Clare stopped. Her heart beat faster, and her mind raced. A tear slid down her face, and more were soon to join its number.
“But I did, Clare. I did! I just never thought…” she couldn’t finish.
The sun set on the girls, and their tear streaked faces gleaming in the light. The silence soon became unbearable, though, and Clare interrupted it with a thought she had been fostering in the quiet.
“But… But if Violet shot the gun… Why weren’t her fingerprints on it? And why was it just out of her reach?”
Avalon sat in the silence, face towards the falling sun, as if mustering the courage to answer the painful question.
“Because I moved the gun.” Clare’s face went paler than she had thought it could, and she was speechless. Saying the words seemed to bring a bit of peace to Avalon’s stricken face, but you could see the hurt and secrets built up still. “I wiped it down and moved it. I—I don’t know how, I don’t even remember if I wiped it down good, but I guess I did because…”
Clare tried to talk, but nothing came out. She waited, pondering her thoughts, amazed at the reality of the situation.
“So… are your prints on the gun then?” she asked hopeful of a rejection.
Avalon nodded, and sighed slightly. She dug her toe into the moist earth of the garden. Clare’s face scrunched up, and she burst into a fit.
“Are you mental? Do you have any idea what you’ve done? Messing with a crime scene—drastically modifying it—removing evidence? Those are probably all felonies. Not to mention—if your prints are on the-the mur-murder weapon, when they get around to fingerprinting the family and friends, they’ll know, Avalon, and they’ll think… things. They’ll think you killed her! I believe you, only because I know you’re a terrible liar around me, and you don’t own a gun, and… you really cared about Vi… But the police don’t know any of that, and even if they did, it wouldn’t matter.”
“I… I know, Clare. And that’s why I did it.” Clare pounded the ground with her fist, and it sunk into the dirt. She pounded them again, breaking the stems of the flowers in the process. Their petals lay in a pathetic pile being buried by the repetitious hammering. Finally, exasperated, she drew her hands up to her face and smudged dirt in her eyes.
“You can’t do this, Avalon! I won’t… I won’t let you!” The frustration in her voice was evident. Just when she’d thought she was healing the pain of the loss, it was being ripped ruthlessly open again, leaving the wounds exposed and bleeding. “Why?”
“Because it’s my fault,” Avalon said, surprisingly calm. She looked into the sunset, eyes squinting in the light. A peace had found its way over her eyes, as if it would somehow be able to pay penitence for its failure.
“How? You didn’t pull the trigger, did you? Or maybe… maybe you did?” she spat incredulously.
“No. But I didn’t stop it from being pulled, did I?”
“How could you have?” Clare nearly shouted, not caring who heard anymore.
“She told me, Clare. She told me she was going too…”
“There was no way you could know she meant it,” choked Clare.
“I should have… I should have been better, I should have taken her to a counselor, told her parents, but I didn’t want to betray her trust like that…”
“Well it’s over now, she’s dead, and you can’t change that,” screeched Clare, emotions in turmoil. Avalon’s face was bent in intense concentration—as if she thought she knew the answer but was afraid of it.
“Exactly. I can’t change it,” she whispered quietly.
“So move on! Get a good lawyer, I don’t know.”
“I can’t. I deserve the punishment…”
“But you didn’t do anything,” Clare bawled.
Avalon’s face wrinkled and her wet cheeks moisture was renewed feverishly.
“I could’ve.”
Clare sat, crying, refusing to respond to this reply. She couldn’t accept it, she couldn’t understand. The thoughts sprang from anger at Violet, frustration with Avalon, exasperation with herself, sympathy for Violet, depression with Avalon. It overwhelmed her and spilled over the sides.
“I could’ve, and I didn’t. Not soon enough,” Avalon concluded.
~*~
“What does the defendant plead?” the judge asked. Avalon’s eyes flew up to the judge’s stern glare, then back at her hands, wringing in her lap. Her lawyer gave one last pitiful glance towards Avalon, then became stone cold as he faced the judge.
“Guilty.”
Clare leaned forward in her seat, far in the back row, and her eyes filled with hopeless tears at the magnitude of confusion and guilt that crowded her, the same confusion that had stolen the life of a friend, and was now about to ruin the life of another.
Friday, April 30, 2010
The Book..part two
Part two of "The Book"!
The wait under the bed was long and painful. I heard voices several times, but none rescued me from my place of waiting. So many of them needed me—but they didn’t know it. They went through the motions of their lives without as much as a second thought to the man who gave so much for them.
One day, a pair of shoes joined my company. They had been kicked off and settled under the bed. At last! Hope of retrieval! And yes, the warmth of the sunlight creeping in from the window was miraculous, and even more so when my pages were opened. But not only were they opened, they were read! The face of a bright young woman had found me when she collected her shoes from under the bed.
Her touch was gentle, her smile kind. She read the words from my pages, and understood them! She knew they had meaning and life in them. When she’d finished reading, she closed me but didn’t let go. She held my close to her heart, and I could feel its beating pulsate through me.
She prayed for me, that the very person who needed me would have me soon; that I would bring encouragement and hope to them. The very hope she had come to cherish when she was just a little girl. The hope of nations.
She searched through her bag until she found a notebook. She took the pen from the nightstand and began to write. She wrote a lovely little note, with references to sections of me that would help a lost person become found. It was wonderfully kind of her. She was helping them find the source of the hope they longed for.
And now, Lord, what wait I for? My hope is in thee.*
And she left. I was sad to see her go, but the note she taped to my front cover brought me courage that it was for the best I was left behind. Someone out there needed me, and it wasn’t her. She had a copy of me that was almost identical. And so I waited, in the drawer that is my home, for another to come along and pick me up.
*Psalm 39:7
The wait under the bed was long and painful. I heard voices several times, but none rescued me from my place of waiting. So many of them needed me—but they didn’t know it. They went through the motions of their lives without as much as a second thought to the man who gave so much for them.
One day, a pair of shoes joined my company. They had been kicked off and settled under the bed. At last! Hope of retrieval! And yes, the warmth of the sunlight creeping in from the window was miraculous, and even more so when my pages were opened. But not only were they opened, they were read! The face of a bright young woman had found me when she collected her shoes from under the bed.
Her touch was gentle, her smile kind. She read the words from my pages, and understood them! She knew they had meaning and life in them. When she’d finished reading, she closed me but didn’t let go. She held my close to her heart, and I could feel its beating pulsate through me.
She prayed for me, that the very person who needed me would have me soon; that I would bring encouragement and hope to them. The very hope she had come to cherish when she was just a little girl. The hope of nations.
She searched through her bag until she found a notebook. She took the pen from the nightstand and began to write. She wrote a lovely little note, with references to sections of me that would help a lost person become found. It was wonderfully kind of her. She was helping them find the source of the hope they longed for.
And now, Lord, what wait I for? My hope is in thee.*
And she left. I was sad to see her go, but the note she taped to my front cover brought me courage that it was for the best I was left behind. Someone out there needed me, and it wasn’t her. She had a copy of me that was almost identical. And so I waited, in the drawer that is my home, for another to come along and pick me up.
*Psalm 39:7
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Ultimate Frisbee
This was an assignment for writing 2. I was supposed to write it from my writing buddy Abbi's persepective, so here it goes!
The first thing I thought when the boys suggested we go outside to play ultimate Frisbee was, “No.”
The second thing that came to mind, when Mr. Burns said “Yeah, ok,” was “No way.”
Then, as we started to walk out the door and into the blinding sun and flippant breeze, my thought was, “Oh no.”
You see, I am not, shall we say, athletically inclined. At all. Any sport played with a ball or disc has my head spinning. I don’t understand them. There are all these rules you have to know, “boundaries,” and then they go and confuse me by splitting us into teams! Terrifying.
So, clutching my skirt, I walked out on the field. “I really don’t want to play,” I said. No one heard me, or if they did, they gave no indication of it. Drat.
So after blindly walking around the field for a few rounds, or whatever they are called, I went over to Emily, who happened to be doing the same as I.
“Let’s be lawn ornaments!” I said. She agreed.
And so we sat, pulling up grass, in the middle of the field. We were nearly trampled several times, but I liked to think I was still assisting my team in some way. I might trip the other team, or make them have to go around me! Genius.
Emily and I moved from being lawn gnomes to meditating frogs, and Mr. Burns told us to take our yoga outside the field. We didn’t.
Emily picked a piece of grass, held it between her thumbs, and blew—hard. And, her blowing created this ear-piercing screech so loud I could feel my ear drums shattering.
“Cool! I want to try!” Emily grinned, and picked me a piece of grass to use. I stuck it expertly between my thumbs, took a deep breath, and blew—hard. But alas, no screeching sound was heard, and I ended up sounding like a baby spitting out a mouthful of pureed carrots. Yuck.
I decided to try again, and Emily helped me to precisely place the grass between my thumbs. I was sure to get it this time! I was drawing my breath in and placing my lips in blowing position, when—
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!” came the blood-curdling shriek from Emily. I fell over in fright.
“Alyssa!” Emily yelled. Alyssa! She had snuck up on us and poked Emily in the sides! Gasp. I was about to get the whistle blowing thing, too!
I tried again. And failed. Again. I tried a few more times, and failed a few more times. Sigh. One more time? Ok, here it goes…
“SKWEEEE-blllleeeee-SKEEEE-bleeehhhhh-WEEEEEE” I did it! “Emily, I got it!” I would do it again, proud of my new ability. Deep breath, and blow! “BLeyyyeeeeee.” Darn. Fail.
Needless to say, I gave up on the grass whistling. Moving on.
“Hey! You want to try the ‘field sobriety tests’ my drivers’ ed teacher showed us that let you know if a person is drunk?” she said.
Sure. I’m sober, I could do this, right?
First one.
“Standing on one foot, looking at the one in the air, count to 30 in real seconds.”
“1…2…3…4…” Hey, I wasn’t failing! Yeah! “12…13…14…” Falling… falling… foot down to save myself! Fail.
“You’re drunk,” Emily told me.
“No I’m not! I’m just… I have an inner ear problem, ok?” We did another three, and I passed those. Phew.
“Ok, now count backwards from 100 staring with odd numbers.”
I got this. “99…97…95…91…89…”
“You skipped 93. You’re drunk!” she teased. “What have you been drinking, mouthwash?”
“I’m not drinking mouthwash!” I said. I was about to elaborate, when a Frisbee flew right by our heads, and a guy was diving right by to catch it! We almost died. And so, after a good five seconds of screaming, we looked up. Everyone was staring at us.
“Moving along,” Emily said coolly. We floated off the field, both acting like the White Queen from Alice in Wonderland. Yeah, I know we’re cool.
The first thing I thought when the boys suggested we go outside to play ultimate Frisbee was, “No.”
The second thing that came to mind, when Mr. Burns said “Yeah, ok,” was “No way.”
Then, as we started to walk out the door and into the blinding sun and flippant breeze, my thought was, “Oh no.”
You see, I am not, shall we say, athletically inclined. At all. Any sport played with a ball or disc has my head spinning. I don’t understand them. There are all these rules you have to know, “boundaries,” and then they go and confuse me by splitting us into teams! Terrifying.
So, clutching my skirt, I walked out on the field. “I really don’t want to play,” I said. No one heard me, or if they did, they gave no indication of it. Drat.
So after blindly walking around the field for a few rounds, or whatever they are called, I went over to Emily, who happened to be doing the same as I.
“Let’s be lawn ornaments!” I said. She agreed.
And so we sat, pulling up grass, in the middle of the field. We were nearly trampled several times, but I liked to think I was still assisting my team in some way. I might trip the other team, or make them have to go around me! Genius.
Emily and I moved from being lawn gnomes to meditating frogs, and Mr. Burns told us to take our yoga outside the field. We didn’t.
Emily picked a piece of grass, held it between her thumbs, and blew—hard. And, her blowing created this ear-piercing screech so loud I could feel my ear drums shattering.
“Cool! I want to try!” Emily grinned, and picked me a piece of grass to use. I stuck it expertly between my thumbs, took a deep breath, and blew—hard. But alas, no screeching sound was heard, and I ended up sounding like a baby spitting out a mouthful of pureed carrots. Yuck.
I decided to try again, and Emily helped me to precisely place the grass between my thumbs. I was sure to get it this time! I was drawing my breath in and placing my lips in blowing position, when—
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhh!” came the blood-curdling shriek from Emily. I fell over in fright.
“Alyssa!” Emily yelled. Alyssa! She had snuck up on us and poked Emily in the sides! Gasp. I was about to get the whistle blowing thing, too!
I tried again. And failed. Again. I tried a few more times, and failed a few more times. Sigh. One more time? Ok, here it goes…
“SKWEEEE-blllleeeee-SKEEEE-bleeehhhhh-WEEEEEE” I did it! “Emily, I got it!” I would do it again, proud of my new ability. Deep breath, and blow! “BLeyyyeeeeee.” Darn. Fail.
Needless to say, I gave up on the grass whistling. Moving on.
“Hey! You want to try the ‘field sobriety tests’ my drivers’ ed teacher showed us that let you know if a person is drunk?” she said.
Sure. I’m sober, I could do this, right?
First one.
“Standing on one foot, looking at the one in the air, count to 30 in real seconds.”
“1…2…3…4…” Hey, I wasn’t failing! Yeah! “12…13…14…” Falling… falling… foot down to save myself! Fail.
“You’re drunk,” Emily told me.
“No I’m not! I’m just… I have an inner ear problem, ok?” We did another three, and I passed those. Phew.
“Ok, now count backwards from 100 staring with odd numbers.”
I got this. “99…97…95…91…89…”
“You skipped 93. You’re drunk!” she teased. “What have you been drinking, mouthwash?”
“I’m not drinking mouthwash!” I said. I was about to elaborate, when a Frisbee flew right by our heads, and a guy was diving right by to catch it! We almost died. And so, after a good five seconds of screaming, we looked up. Everyone was staring at us.
“Moving along,” Emily said coolly. We floated off the field, both acting like the White Queen from Alice in Wonderland. Yeah, I know we’re cool.
Friday, April 16, 2010
The Book.. part one
I didn't like our journal assignment for this week in writing class... So I'm not doing it and am turning this in instead! To be continued... I already have the next two parts so let me know what you think!
I rolled of the presses, ink warm on my pages. After they’d all dried, machines bonded them together. They put a nice hard cover on me, to protect me, I think. I was proud of that cover. It was red and smooth, with my title in gold ink. It was a prestigious title, too, and I hoped I could go to someone who would love and cherish me. I was boxed together with others just like me, and shipped off somewhere.
Soon I felt myself being unpacked and placed into a drawer. I sat there for weeks and weeks, just waiting for someone to read me. I heard voices, music, and footsteps, but no one came to me. I stayed in the drawer.
Then one day, the drawer was opened and light flooded my once dark home. I was lifted out, not entirely gently, but taken out all the same. I watched as a pair of stressed brown eyes looked my cover over. They quickly put me back and shut the drawer. Why hadn’t they opened me? Didn’t they know of the wonderful message that was living atop my pages?
The same person opened the drawer later that day, late at night. He stared warily, and cautiously opened the front cover. I held my breath and waited for him to go on. But he slammed it shut again and threw it back in the drawer. He shoved the drawer, but it didn’t close all the way. It was left open just a crack, enough to let in some light. Dim light filled my drawer, and soon the light grew slowly brighter. Still very dim, but brighter than before. Soon a sliver of the moon was visible, and I rejoiced at the thought it brought forth: Praise ye Him, sun and moon: praise Him, all ye stars of light.*
Soon the moonlight reflected off of my gold lettering and cast a small spot of glow upon the ceiling. This captured the attention of the man, and he opened the drawer yet again. This time, as I stared into his empty eyes, he opened more than my front cover. He turned a few pages. He picked through great chunks frantically, looking for something. Stop flipping and look harder! Fill their faces with shame; that they may seek Thy name, O LORD.** It was right there.
His face gave away the shame he tried so hard to hide. Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.*** He was seeking forgiveness, I knew it; but he was looking for it wrongly. He was looking for some act of righteousness he could perform as atonement.
For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: not of works, lest any man should boast.**** But he didn’t see this. In his frustration, he threw me to the ground. The answers are here! Come, open me and look again! But he kicked me under the bed. I heard him weep, and it saddened me greatly.
I heard him leave, not bothering to return me to my home in the drawer. Good-bye, oh lost one. May you find your way into His great arms before you face eternity without Him. He, who created you, he loves you. Come home to Him.
*Psalm 148:3
**Psalm 83:16
***Matthew 7:7
****Ephesians 2:8-9
I rolled of the presses, ink warm on my pages. After they’d all dried, machines bonded them together. They put a nice hard cover on me, to protect me, I think. I was proud of that cover. It was red and smooth, with my title in gold ink. It was a prestigious title, too, and I hoped I could go to someone who would love and cherish me. I was boxed together with others just like me, and shipped off somewhere.
Soon I felt myself being unpacked and placed into a drawer. I sat there for weeks and weeks, just waiting for someone to read me. I heard voices, music, and footsteps, but no one came to me. I stayed in the drawer.
Then one day, the drawer was opened and light flooded my once dark home. I was lifted out, not entirely gently, but taken out all the same. I watched as a pair of stressed brown eyes looked my cover over. They quickly put me back and shut the drawer. Why hadn’t they opened me? Didn’t they know of the wonderful message that was living atop my pages?
The same person opened the drawer later that day, late at night. He stared warily, and cautiously opened the front cover. I held my breath and waited for him to go on. But he slammed it shut again and threw it back in the drawer. He shoved the drawer, but it didn’t close all the way. It was left open just a crack, enough to let in some light. Dim light filled my drawer, and soon the light grew slowly brighter. Still very dim, but brighter than before. Soon a sliver of the moon was visible, and I rejoiced at the thought it brought forth: Praise ye Him, sun and moon: praise Him, all ye stars of light.*
Soon the moonlight reflected off of my gold lettering and cast a small spot of glow upon the ceiling. This captured the attention of the man, and he opened the drawer yet again. This time, as I stared into his empty eyes, he opened more than my front cover. He turned a few pages. He picked through great chunks frantically, looking for something. Stop flipping and look harder! Fill their faces with shame; that they may seek Thy name, O LORD.** It was right there.
His face gave away the shame he tried so hard to hide. Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.*** He was seeking forgiveness, I knew it; but he was looking for it wrongly. He was looking for some act of righteousness he could perform as atonement.
For by grace are ye saved through faith; and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God: not of works, lest any man should boast.**** But he didn’t see this. In his frustration, he threw me to the ground. The answers are here! Come, open me and look again! But he kicked me under the bed. I heard him weep, and it saddened me greatly.
I heard him leave, not bothering to return me to my home in the drawer. Good-bye, oh lost one. May you find your way into His great arms before you face eternity without Him. He, who created you, he loves you. Come home to Him.
*Psalm 148:3
**Psalm 83:16
***Matthew 7:7
****Ephesians 2:8-9
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Meg
"Whatever you have to do to get through it, go ahead and do. Just don't stop. Finish the whole combination. This is the hardest thing you'll have to do today," said Meg.
The sweat collected on my furrowed brow. Stomach in. Pelvis striaght up. Hips square. Bottom held. Inner thigh wrapping. Chest lifted. Shoulders relaxed. Arms rotated. Good. My mind flew through its mental list of body placement. The salty drops on my forehead grew heavy and made their way down my swimming face.
"Scream if you have to! Just do it!" she hollered. Keep going. Get through it.
I tried not to tense my left hand, but discovered my white knuckled grip on the barre was much tighter than was necessary. I loosened it a bit, but my mind could not get over the searing pain in my right leg. It rond de jambed out extended straight to the side, in to retire at my knee, extended straight to the side, in to retire at my knee. Again. Keep going.
"Don't let that leg come below 90 degrees, ladies!" I cringed as I felt the drops roll off my chin and onto the ground. I kept circling the leg. Rotate out, wrap the inner thigh in, rotate out, wrap the inner thigh in.
"And last four," she called out. "Make them good." Breathe, I told myself. Breathe. The aching set in, and I could barely feel my standing leg, no way of knowing if it was turned out or not. Finish. The last painful rond de jamb en le aire closed to retire and it took all I had left (which wasn't very much) to bring it gracefully down to fifth position. Once there, I let it all go. I felt limp. Exausted. Jello-legged.
"Good."
Phew. We're done with that.
"Now do the other side."
*Sigh*
The sweat collected on my furrowed brow. Stomach in. Pelvis striaght up. Hips square. Bottom held. Inner thigh wrapping. Chest lifted. Shoulders relaxed. Arms rotated. Good. My mind flew through its mental list of body placement. The salty drops on my forehead grew heavy and made their way down my swimming face.
"Scream if you have to! Just do it!" she hollered. Keep going. Get through it.
I tried not to tense my left hand, but discovered my white knuckled grip on the barre was much tighter than was necessary. I loosened it a bit, but my mind could not get over the searing pain in my right leg. It rond de jambed out extended straight to the side, in to retire at my knee, extended straight to the side, in to retire at my knee. Again. Keep going.
"Don't let that leg come below 90 degrees, ladies!" I cringed as I felt the drops roll off my chin and onto the ground. I kept circling the leg. Rotate out, wrap the inner thigh in, rotate out, wrap the inner thigh in.
"And last four," she called out. "Make them good." Breathe, I told myself. Breathe. The aching set in, and I could barely feel my standing leg, no way of knowing if it was turned out or not. Finish. The last painful rond de jamb en le aire closed to retire and it took all I had left (which wasn't very much) to bring it gracefully down to fifth position. Once there, I let it all go. I felt limp. Exausted. Jello-legged.
"Good."
Phew. We're done with that.
"Now do the other side."
*Sigh*
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Writing is a Journey
Just a brief overview I wrote of my writing journey through the years.
Writing is a journey. From childhood and on, I have been writing.
I grew up writing stories of flying mermaids and gardens with magical golden roses, lost talking puppy dogs and wishing wells, princesses and magical stuffed animals. As a very young girl, I wrote “ripots” on varying things such as “mi birtdae” and “pocahonts”. I occasionally kept journals, but never for very long. I wrote newspapers for my family and sold them for a quarter each.
I still remember writing my first-ever real paragraph for a teacher that would actually grade it. I thought for a long time on a subject, and then carefully and thoughtfully typed out the words. I sent it to my older sister in college to proof-read, and used her corrections. I printed it out and stapled its two pages of double-spaced 12 pt. font, and tenderly placed it in my English 9 folder. I proudly read it aloud in class, rejoicing over the smoothness of the words flowing from one sentence to the next. I received full marks.
I once wrote a letter to a magazine I subscribed to. Every issue has letters from readers commenting on articles and suggesting themes for new ones. I recall opening that issue, and reading the letters. As I started to read one of them, I feared that someone had stolen my topic of discussion. There had been an interesting article on Houdini, and there had also been another article on “mediums” or “ghost whisperers”. The inspiration to write the letter had come from the memory of once reading in a book about Houdini that he and his wife had made a code to try and see if they could communicate with one another when one was dead and the other living.
I had relayed these thoughts regarding Houdini and his wife’s attempt to communicate in my letter. And so, as I read the very similar letter in the magazine, I realized it was the same type of comments as mine had been! I read on, becoming more and more shocked as I went. Had someone else beaten me to the punch? I couldn’t believe it! I was livid! And then, humbly, I came upon the closing. Sincerely, Emily P. Oh. J
Ah, the time I first decided for once and for all that I wanted to be a writer. That I wanted to create stories that took you on a journey you could hardly imagine without skillful assistants and that would whirl you around before dropping you safely back in your cozy living room. It was yet again fall, and school was upon us. In Mrs. Smith’s English 10 class, in fact, was where the fateful worksheet was handed out. The first secret of scintillating sentences, it said, is addition. We were given simple, run of the mile, blah and ho-hum sentences. We were told to transform them and transform them I did. From a simple four-word sentence Brandon captivated the class I wrote a five line masterpiece of marvels and tear-jerking sentiments that was completely grammatically correct.
And though I have searched my computer and folder, the paper is not to be found. Funny, isn’t it, how the important little things like that just disappear? I suppose that is how it was with Picasso’s childhood paintings, Bach’s first draft of his greatest symphony, and the elementary school book report of C.S. Lewis. But truly, it was this work of creativity and challenge that fueled within me the passion of an artist. I had long wondered what I would do with my life. Would I be a doctor, a photographer, a teacher, an actor? Or perhaps a performer on Broadway, a lawyer, a beautician, or even a Disney princess? All my life I had wondered, but now I knew for sure. No matter what other occupation might catch my fancy briefly, I would always be a writer.
And perhaps the biggest writing challenge I had faced yet. National novel writing month, or NaNoWriMo. I was being challenged to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. It was a daunting task, to say the least. It started optimistically, despite the fact that I was plot-less. I had but a singular thought in my mind: a wingless fairy named Graylin. And yet, somehow, I was able to scrape 50,213 words from it. 50,213 words regarding several supporting characters, a villain, a bitter and resentful side character, two magical trees, fairy dust, determination, death, failure, perseverance, and a very important dictionary. I wrote 11,000 words in one Saturday near the end, in determination to finish the goal in time. And I did.
Writing is a journey, and there is mine. From childhood “ripots” to elementary magazine letters being published, scintillating sentences, and a novel, thus flows my journey of the pen. And surely it is a journey that will continue on and someday take wing and fly.
Writing is a journey. From childhood and on, I have been writing.
I grew up writing stories of flying mermaids and gardens with magical golden roses, lost talking puppy dogs and wishing wells, princesses and magical stuffed animals. As a very young girl, I wrote “ripots” on varying things such as “mi birtdae” and “pocahonts”. I occasionally kept journals, but never for very long. I wrote newspapers for my family and sold them for a quarter each.
I still remember writing my first-ever real paragraph for a teacher that would actually grade it. I thought for a long time on a subject, and then carefully and thoughtfully typed out the words. I sent it to my older sister in college to proof-read, and used her corrections. I printed it out and stapled its two pages of double-spaced 12 pt. font, and tenderly placed it in my English 9 folder. I proudly read it aloud in class, rejoicing over the smoothness of the words flowing from one sentence to the next. I received full marks.
I once wrote a letter to a magazine I subscribed to. Every issue has letters from readers commenting on articles and suggesting themes for new ones. I recall opening that issue, and reading the letters. As I started to read one of them, I feared that someone had stolen my topic of discussion. There had been an interesting article on Houdini, and there had also been another article on “mediums” or “ghost whisperers”. The inspiration to write the letter had come from the memory of once reading in a book about Houdini that he and his wife had made a code to try and see if they could communicate with one another when one was dead and the other living.
I had relayed these thoughts regarding Houdini and his wife’s attempt to communicate in my letter. And so, as I read the very similar letter in the magazine, I realized it was the same type of comments as mine had been! I read on, becoming more and more shocked as I went. Had someone else beaten me to the punch? I couldn’t believe it! I was livid! And then, humbly, I came upon the closing. Sincerely, Emily P. Oh. J
Ah, the time I first decided for once and for all that I wanted to be a writer. That I wanted to create stories that took you on a journey you could hardly imagine without skillful assistants and that would whirl you around before dropping you safely back in your cozy living room. It was yet again fall, and school was upon us. In Mrs. Smith’s English 10 class, in fact, was where the fateful worksheet was handed out. The first secret of scintillating sentences, it said, is addition. We were given simple, run of the mile, blah and ho-hum sentences. We were told to transform them and transform them I did. From a simple four-word sentence Brandon captivated the class I wrote a five line masterpiece of marvels and tear-jerking sentiments that was completely grammatically correct.
And though I have searched my computer and folder, the paper is not to be found. Funny, isn’t it, how the important little things like that just disappear? I suppose that is how it was with Picasso’s childhood paintings, Bach’s first draft of his greatest symphony, and the elementary school book report of C.S. Lewis. But truly, it was this work of creativity and challenge that fueled within me the passion of an artist. I had long wondered what I would do with my life. Would I be a doctor, a photographer, a teacher, an actor? Or perhaps a performer on Broadway, a lawyer, a beautician, or even a Disney princess? All my life I had wondered, but now I knew for sure. No matter what other occupation might catch my fancy briefly, I would always be a writer.
And perhaps the biggest writing challenge I had faced yet. National novel writing month, or NaNoWriMo. I was being challenged to write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. It was a daunting task, to say the least. It started optimistically, despite the fact that I was plot-less. I had but a singular thought in my mind: a wingless fairy named Graylin. And yet, somehow, I was able to scrape 50,213 words from it. 50,213 words regarding several supporting characters, a villain, a bitter and resentful side character, two magical trees, fairy dust, determination, death, failure, perseverance, and a very important dictionary. I wrote 11,000 words in one Saturday near the end, in determination to finish the goal in time. And I did.
Writing is a journey, and there is mine. From childhood “ripots” to elementary magazine letters being published, scintillating sentences, and a novel, thus flows my journey of the pen. And surely it is a journey that will continue on and someday take wing and fly.
The Thankful Tree
An assignment from my Writing 2 class. We were told to write about thankfullness.
Every year, the day after Halloween, my family hangs up our thankful tree. It is a simple tree, made from cut up grocery bags, but it is a family tradition.
The idea is to write down something you are thankful for on a colorful fall leaf made of cardstock, and tape it to the tree. The tree is taped to the door leading into our garage, in easy view of the whole family. After the tree is full of fall foliage, we tape the leaves to the door to look like they are falling from the tree, and make “piles” around the trunk.
When I was a little girl, my leaves were ornamented with names of my friends, pokemon cards, pens and pencils, a roof, snow, fun, mom, dad, and (of course) God. As I grew older, I would write “I am thankful for…” on the top part of the leaf and draw little pictures alongside the words. Soon I began to sign the leaf in the stems as well. At age 8 or 9, I would be the first one to tape my leaves to the tree, perhaps ten or twelve at a time.
As I was growing up, I was always afraid of growing up like my siblings. They, around age 11 or 12, declared they were “too old” for the thankful tree, and would only tape up two or three leaves all November long. I was horrified at the idea of being “too old” for the thankful tree. I made a promise to myself that I would never be “too old” for the thankful tree. At age 15, I have still kept that promise.
I recently looked back through the bags full of leaves my mom has kept from years past, and laughed at the memories. I was thankful for friends, Pokémon cards, pens and pencils, a roof, snow, fun, mom, dad, and (of course) God at age 6 in 2000. Four years later in 2004 at age 10, I was thankful for candy, candles, pizza, hot chocolate, sleep-overs, dance, trees and leaves, church, colors (especially yellow and baby blue), roller coaster tycoon, milk, parties, and (of course) God and Jesus. And now, at age 15 in the year 2009, I am thankful for dictionary.com, Owl City, Microsoft office word, music, homework (yes, homework), poodle skirts, nail polish, hair dye, my kitty, facebook, and (of course) the Father’s great and mighty love for us.
For things great and small, we are thankful. Having a tree to express these feelings every fall has helped me to remember just what they are.
Every year, the day after Halloween, my family hangs up our thankful tree. It is a simple tree, made from cut up grocery bags, but it is a family tradition.
The idea is to write down something you are thankful for on a colorful fall leaf made of cardstock, and tape it to the tree. The tree is taped to the door leading into our garage, in easy view of the whole family. After the tree is full of fall foliage, we tape the leaves to the door to look like they are falling from the tree, and make “piles” around the trunk.
When I was a little girl, my leaves were ornamented with names of my friends, pokemon cards, pens and pencils, a roof, snow, fun, mom, dad, and (of course) God. As I grew older, I would write “I am thankful for…” on the top part of the leaf and draw little pictures alongside the words. Soon I began to sign the leaf in the stems as well. At age 8 or 9, I would be the first one to tape my leaves to the tree, perhaps ten or twelve at a time.
As I was growing up, I was always afraid of growing up like my siblings. They, around age 11 or 12, declared they were “too old” for the thankful tree, and would only tape up two or three leaves all November long. I was horrified at the idea of being “too old” for the thankful tree. I made a promise to myself that I would never be “too old” for the thankful tree. At age 15, I have still kept that promise.
I recently looked back through the bags full of leaves my mom has kept from years past, and laughed at the memories. I was thankful for friends, Pokémon cards, pens and pencils, a roof, snow, fun, mom, dad, and (of course) God at age 6 in 2000. Four years later in 2004 at age 10, I was thankful for candy, candles, pizza, hot chocolate, sleep-overs, dance, trees and leaves, church, colors (especially yellow and baby blue), roller coaster tycoon, milk, parties, and (of course) God and Jesus. And now, at age 15 in the year 2009, I am thankful for dictionary.com, Owl City, Microsoft office word, music, homework (yes, homework), poodle skirts, nail polish, hair dye, my kitty, facebook, and (of course) the Father’s great and mighty love for us.
For things great and small, we are thankful. Having a tree to express these feelings every fall has helped me to remember just what they are.
Where I’m From
Just an asignment from my English class-- a poem filled out using the basic template of George Ella Lyons poem of the same title.
I am from twirly dresses, from Duplo and Pokémon.
I am from the backyard town Creekside Roxaboxen, (muddy after a rain, decorated with pieces of yarn, and the constant fear of the poison ivy that grew there every summer.)
I am from climbing the Willow tree; the backyard forest and creek that never failed to provide endless escapades tromping through chasing butterflies and eating sour gooseberries.
I am from the Claes Family Christmas and brunettes with brown eyes (not quite sure how that one worked out…), from Dale and Kathy, farmers and city folk.
I am from tightwads and those who love to eat.
From “Play your piano!” and “No you can’t play with friends until your math is done!”
I am from the God who is Mighty To Save, learning Bible verses with the help of a bear cub, a firefly, and a boy with 313 ½ freckles.
I’m from Orange City and Czechoslovakia, Crazy Crust Pizza and kolaches.
I’m from my father showing pigs at the O’Brian county fair in July, Iowa State Fair in August, and Clay county fair in September, the Monster Club that included Frankenstein, Dracula, and my mother, the bat.
I’m from the scrapbooks at Grandma’s house, filled to bursting with pictures, newspaper clippings, hand written notes, Christmas cards, and memories.
I am from those photographs locking forever in time those moments that tell my story and remind me of where I’m from.
I am from twirly dresses, from Duplo and Pokémon.
I am from the backyard town Creekside Roxaboxen, (muddy after a rain, decorated with pieces of yarn, and the constant fear of the poison ivy that grew there every summer.)
I am from climbing the Willow tree; the backyard forest and creek that never failed to provide endless escapades tromping through chasing butterflies and eating sour gooseberries.
I am from the Claes Family Christmas and brunettes with brown eyes (not quite sure how that one worked out…), from Dale and Kathy, farmers and city folk.
I am from tightwads and those who love to eat.
From “Play your piano!” and “No you can’t play with friends until your math is done!”
I am from the God who is Mighty To Save, learning Bible verses with the help of a bear cub, a firefly, and a boy with 313 ½ freckles.
I’m from Orange City and Czechoslovakia, Crazy Crust Pizza and kolaches.
I’m from my father showing pigs at the O’Brian county fair in July, Iowa State Fair in August, and Clay county fair in September, the Monster Club that included Frankenstein, Dracula, and my mother, the bat.
I’m from the scrapbooks at Grandma’s house, filled to bursting with pictures, newspaper clippings, hand written notes, Christmas cards, and memories.
I am from those photographs locking forever in time those moments that tell my story and remind me of where I’m from.
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