Alright. Wrote this late late last night. Not sure it's very good. But it's v. science-fiction-y. So...any advice/criticism/praise is always welcome. And yes, the title sucks and is very cliche. but oh well.( If Looks Could KillCollapse )
To me it seems that there are the last days. Although my absence will only be temporary, being able to say, "I'm moving in 25 days," makes the whole event sounds like a big deal. I figure it is, being as I have lived in the same place for almost a decade of my life. It just happened when two years became five, and then we were moved in. Now that I'm approaching my last days I realize how much these past years have meant to me.
I've practically moved into my new room, around 3,000 miles away from home. I left my home two and a half weeks ago and enjoyed a vacation including the rocky Oregon beach, humorous hiking trips, and multiple shopping excursions. I'm now tired, not to mention prepared for cold weather I haven't explored since my early childhood.
I find plane rides exhausting, which is strange because the amount of actual physical effort required wouldn't carry my feet around the high school track more than once. Knowing that the jet lag involved in flying from Oregon to Alabama will be ridiculous, I refuse my body the sleep it demands. Instead I amuse myself with the people on the plane. One blonde haired teenager in particular. I outline his character mentally, exaggerating simple movements and actions.
He boards the plane with only a notebook and a pen. He is alone, with an empty seat next to him. I look up to my left and see him every few moments. If he catches my eye I turn the page in my book. He opens the notebook and I ponder if he is a writer or an artist. Because he is right-handed I can't see any of this work. I can't see this but the flow of his hand and the pen indicated that he is writing. For a moment I figure he's journaling or writing to some random person. Then suddenly he flips the page, continuing the too quick handwriting all boys have mastered. I learn that he is a new flyer, or at least not a frequent one. He continues his writing with the tray table down as the plane leaves Salt Lake City. He leaves to find the lavatory while the seat belt sign in still glowing. It's when he returns that my profile of an artsy boy who is a bit of a loner or rebel are crushed as surely as the clouds that are disturbed at an altitude of 13000 feet.
Mystery boy tries reclining and closing his eyes, then lying down. Him and I are connected as he learns the downsides of air travel. Although his grace has left him, I try to focus on the naivety that drew me to him at all. The in-flight movie begins and mystery boy watches it. My fascination slowly clears. I sip my drink slowly and laugh inwardly. I had created a personality- this boy chose a simple PG movie over writing or a good book. I occasionally glance the five seats over, just to see if he can redeem himself.
I stand up to allow my sister, yes, the one with the walnut sized bladder access to the restroom. Why she insists on the window seat is beyond me. I listen to my latest compilation CD conclude, and sip my drink. Mystery boy, who looks about 17, accepts the coffee from the flight attendant. I see him grimace but miss the next few minutes. I then see him abandon the milk-diluted lukewarm drink. I finish my soda but don't call the flight attendant. Disposal of the cup isn't urgent. I sigh and wish mystery boy had lived up to my fantasy.
Reluctantly I surrender to the lingering silence. My body is empty now, drained, physically and emotionally. I realize that I need more sleep. I close my eyes and try to forget about this mystery boy, who isn't just him, but all the other mystery boys who have let me down in much closer and hurtful, unintentional ways.
I've been told I need dialogue involved. But I'm not sure. Any advice would be greatly appreciated.
She carries herself with a type of grace most people can’t even fake. Her enthusiasm builds them up as she cheers with the rest of the girls. A ponytail with small red curls; this girl is no typical cheerleader. Julia appears to be the poster girl for teenage America. Though you won’t sit in the stands and see it all, she’s truly the poster US high schools beg you not to look at; it’s tucked away in a drawer and concealed from the public’s eye. She’s the poster of hurt, envy, and sadness.
From the bleachers all you see are her bright green eyes, bouncing up and down with the blue and yellow pompoms. Her smile is huge, and her energy undeniable. However, when she goes home tonight, that smile will be impossible to even imagine gracing her face. Reading this, you may wonder, why? How could a girl with good grades and a new drivers license possibly be unhappy? What could possibly be wrong? At surface value, nothing.
On this particular day she leaves school and goes to an empty home. After walking the dog, she gets in her mother’s station wagon and drives to the hospital. Her mother looks more and more tired every day. The chemotherapy doesn’t work but seems to make her worse than she was already. The doctors say this is her last session, so next time; there won’t be a cocktail of chemicals in the room for her. Her daughter drives her home, paints her toenails pink and puts that smile right back to where the people in her life need it to be.
She has to be the one smiling, because without Julia, her mother probably wouldn’t have made it the last twelve years. Her husband works at the same hospital she gets treated at, though you wouldn’t know it. The truth is, he is afraid. If he told his daughter that they could draw lines and support each other, but as for right now, Julia is on her own. Extended family has visited and said goodbye, but it hurts to come year after year when they know her pain is being prolonged. Julia doesn’t prefer it, but this bond with her mother is one she’ll hold onto until she can’t hold on any longer.
It’s difficult because her friends don’t understand that the word “cancer” has been in her vocabulary for years now. Her friends do care and that helps, but death is still right at the back door. It’s a Friday night, and she opens that door. Outside stands her boyfriend, with liquor and glow in the dark paint. Inside her soul cries for something more fulfilling than the man at the door, but her body craves the comfort this romantic relationship provides.
Her friends care and try to tell her to end it with him. Mike is a 23-year-old man with no future and no concept of what defines statutory rape. He’s “fat and bald” to put it in the words of one of her friends. However, the closeness of this disgusting alcoholic man keeps her warm at night. To Julia, he’s something she won’t lose. Ever since starting high school she has channeled through different groups of people, from the preps to the stoners to her current group. Even though she senses stability there, she knows this mess of man has nothing else to turn to but her.
Her mother may be able to abandon her, but he won’t. Mike is addicted, just like Julia is to her mother. She tries on her mother’s attitude when she argues with him, and her mother’s voice reflects through her own anguish. Somehow she’s becoming the woman she’s losing, but somehow she’s losing herself in the process. She projects emptiness with trips to Denny’s and Truth or Dare Jenga, which are both fun, but not solutions. She reaches for Mike’s arms, to make sure they haven’t yet let her go. For some reasons she needs them to hold on just a little longer.
She lets down her hair, takes off the cheerleader skirt, and surrenders to just another evening of wondering when avoiding her problems is going to end. She may look like your poster girl, but you don’t ever see her when the spotlight’s gone. She avoids her life and looks at what she can. Facing herself may be the most difficult thing she does, but it’s inevitable. This fiery red head has a life full of potential; no doubt, she just has to conquer the hurt lying inside of her first.
Wed, Dec. 31st, 2003, 05:31 pm
heres something i wrote a while ago. tell me what you think.
gosh, now im gonna have people telling me im gay.
bummer( read my thingCollapse )
there ya go
Posting a poem for a friend of mine.
Written by bz_the_tiger
Bz ©Bz 2002
my name is Bz
I like cheese
lots of cheese
and some more cheese!
that's a lot of cheese!
thank Chuck I don't get any Deeze
in school, cuz I eat plenty o cheese!
is another way to spell geeze
I like to dance and shake my neeze
do you enjoy my poem of me, Bz?
pass the cheese
the day, seize
do not teaze,
poor lil Bz!
and don't wheeze,
take some cough medicine or some cheese!
I am a sexy beaze-
t, and I like cheeze
[a/n: I rock.]
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