Me, The Writer
My words are like distance.
It’s so far when so close, so close when so far.
It may seem so shallow yet be deeper than you think you are.
Like distance, my words, they can break you.
Words are just words until someone mistakes you.
And like distance, you can’t see it unless you look deep,
And when it finally hits you, you can’t help but weep.
My words are like distance so listen if you dare.
Because when you take away the distance, nothing is there.
I found what I lost
Among the leaves
Sitting patiently
It waited for me
Among the leaves
A heart was hidden
Sitting patiently
Yearning for me
A heart was hidden
In his soul
Yearning for me
But, I could not go
In his soul
Love was conjured
But, I could not go
To fulfill my desires
Love was conjured
Amidst the leaves
To fulfill my desires
Oh, true love
Sitting patiently
Amidst the leaves
I found what I lost
Oh, true love
So the boy waits
As time lingers by
He’s felt as if
She has told him a lie
As time lingers by
he has figured out why
she has told him a lie
still, he wanted to cry
He has figured out why
she’s escaped the goodbye
still, he wanted to cry.
The love they once shared, slowly would die.
She escaped the goodbye
and with a tortured sigh
the love they once shared, slowly would die.
He could not be deprived.
And with a tortured sigh
he’s felt as if
he could not be deprived.
So, the boy waits.
There once was a girl from Haiku
Who wanted a dream that was new
She wanted to fly,
But didn’t know why
Watch out! She’s coming for you!
I sincerely apologize
For the black eye
I gifted you
But
I told you
Multiple times
Not to scare me
The frozen blades of grass slide between my toes, sending a frigidity up my spine. Jack and I scurry through the graveyard in search of the conspicuous grave of Dear Johnny, the son of our mirthless principal who had died five years prior to this dreary fall midnight.
Kids of our humble town of Silver Springs, wonder constantly about the tragedy that struck Dear Johnny to death; tonight we planned to change that by reuniting with his ghost.
We search frantically to find one tombstone amongst thousands. Jack flashes his light across the field twice, the signal we had designated for the finding of the grave. I sprint towards him, and we begin digging fervently. “Dank” we hit the gold mine.
Jack looks over at me with a weary smirk. I nod and jump into the hole, quickly dusting the ancient dirt from atop the casket.
“Dude, Im sorry I gotta go!” Jack exclaims as he begins to run amongst the vog, steering clear of the lawmen. Baffled beyond explanation, I am incapable of speaking. My mind becomes foggy as my goals, which seemed so close, become a new sense of fantasy.
Right out of high school, drafted to UCLA as a baseball star, my life goal, finally achieved, and now, everything was over. Thrown away like nothing more than a withered shoe.
I stand frozen next to the casket of Dear Johnny as police order me to raise my hands.
“Sorry,” I say a word lacking any sense of significance. No sense of regret or offer of escape.
Why do they leave us like this? Unlocked, hanging from freezing gaps in the metal…Why can’t they just lock us? Why do they deny us of our true purpose?
The locks across of us are locked. They look so content and happy. We want to be like them. But, those feeble humans don’t understand us. They don’t get us.
Every day I am locked, and it fills me completely. I feel whole when I’m locked. I have a purpose. I protect things. A warm temperature encases me when the gears lock up. I hang from the plastic circle and take a deep breath. I am ready to stay strong and guard the items in the locker.
My neighbors feel the same. I can’t stand it when they’re left hanging and unlocked. I can hear their cries of disappointment and shame. I can feel them shivering against the cold metal, yearning for that warmth that comes from being locked. They give off an energy that lowers my mood. I can feel their sadness and depression. They grow weak…they begin to lose their purpose…they lose themselves…
I once knew a strong, prideful lock; however, one day the humans left him unlocked. Humans would pass by him, they didn’t try to lock him…they passed by…They- They are heartless beasts!
My friend- he…he wasn’t locked for a couple days…Each day I saw his soul drift out of his gears. His insides were twisted and gnarled. He became numb…He started to forget things. He forgot where he was, what his name was, who his friends were, and then he finally forgot his purpose. He lost everything. He’s nothing now. Just another mundane lock hanging from a metal hole.
My race is slowly dying…We are energy that inhabits stationary items…We are the energy of the metal. We all used to live on the lockers, but slowly they started to be left unlocked. They forgot their purpose. They forgot the feeling of warmth from being locked. I am lowly dying…
I- What- I- don’t remember…What was I thinking about? The other locks…Where am I? I- I’m in a locker! I- I can fight this! I can remember. I can do it. I am locker 246, I protect this humans possessions- I- Where am I again? I don’t remember…It’s getting blurry. I- I- don’t know. My gears hurt- Ow! I- I don’t know! There’s this horrible crunching pain inside me. It’s twisting me, my gears- I can feel the edges bending and stabbing into the other gears. It’s so cold- so very cold. I’m shaking. I’m freezing. It hurts. Please. Make it stop. Make it stop. Please- I can’t- I can’t do this- I’m sorry- Make it stop-
I-
I-
I-
Where am I?
Who am I?
What am I supposed to do?
Everyone wants to be that girl. The Cheetah Girl embodies the svelte figure, lyrical voice and enviable position of the teenage idol. There I was, crouched in front of the T.V. in rapt attention and wishing I could only be so lucky. I was confident that I could sing, but could I really be a Cheetah Girl? The T.V. loomed before me, taunting me to speak. I stood and proclaimed it.
“I will be a Cheetah Girl till the day I die!”
“Is that so?” my mother inquired.
I proceeded to run around the house, singing along to the prerecorded album in my purple leopard tights, much to my mother’s dismay. BOOM, the bookshelf… demolished. As I heard my father hustle up the stairs, I knew my dreams to become anything more than a child in time-out should just as well be demolished too.
Coming home from school, I found a note pinned on the front door. It read: BEWARE OF THE DRAGON. It was the same note that had been there for weeks. Still curious though, I stuck my head to the door listening for any sound coming from within, nothing.
Leaning forward I start to turn the handle to the left. The latch clicks allowing me to start to push the door open when all of a sudden, “Bubba!” the door is wooshed open and I fall flat on my face.
“Owww, geesh!” I yelled into an empty living room. I looked up, the house was empty. My eyes began searching for something that wasn’t there; my ears began ringing from the lack of noise that a month ago would’ve resounded from the upstairs bedroom, the room right next to mine, and my nose began to twitch searching for that one special scent that it would never find.
Throwing my backpack down on the floor, I proceeded to the kitchen, grabbing an apple from inside of the drawer. Taking a bite, I sprinted up the stairs to the master bedroom where I knew my mom would be, where she always was, sitting on the bay window looking out into the lake, the Lake of Sorrows is what I started to call it.
“Mom, did you eat today?” I asked. I answered my own question, seeing her nearly full bowl of now soggy cereal that I had made for her before I left for school. “Ma,” I said walking towards her, “Mom,” I grabbed her shoulders and turned her to face me.
Her beautiful strawberry blonde hair was tangled and crisp from the lack of care, and a few white hairs could be picked out here and there. Her hands were fragile like crumpled butterfly wings, and the skin was pale. Her face looked sunken in and her light hazel eyes had lost their glow. She wasn’t looking at me, it seemed as if she was looking through me, like her eyes were on the constant search for an unrecognizable file.
“Okay mom, let’s get you freshened up,” I said as I helped her into her massive master jet-stream bathroom. The warm water cascaded down into a swirling bubble bath of memories and loss. “Mom, your bath is ready,” I said. I turned around as she de-robed herself and stepped into the bath.
When I heard the water settle, I turned and faced her. Her eyes were closed, and when she spoke, it came out as a whisper, “Do you think they’re happy?”
“What?” I asked.
“Do you think they’re happy, Son?” she opened her eyes and looked straight at me with that familiar spark that I once loved.
“Yeah mom, I do. I know they’re happy. They’re together. Dad has a partner now,” I said.
“Well yes, I suppose he does, your little brother must’ve been so scared,” tears began to stream over her brittle cheeks. “It’s my fault, I left the door open, If I hadn’t-,” she cried seemingly struggling to breathe.
I put my hand on her shoulder. “Mom, it’s okay. You know how much he loved dragonflies, and the lake-”
“Yes son, the lake was the ‘land of the dragons,’” she hiccupped trying to recover. A slight giggle escaped from her mouth, a sound that enraptured my soul, a lost sound that I’d thought I’d never hear again.
“Yeah mom, that’s right, he was the most adventurous three-year old I ever knew,” I smiled as the memories of my little brother rushed over the floodgates refreshing my mind and reaching all the corners of my subconscious.
Tears poured out incessantly. No longer numb, I thought about my little brother’s death that happened just a month ago, an accident at the lake, and my father’s death, in that same lake three years before when his boat capsized during a freak storm. Sometime between the talking, the crying, and the thinking, my mother had gotten out of the bath and put on her robe, and she too was crying.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Son. I know I haven’t been there for you. I know it must be hard dealing with this, and me, all by yourself. I promise, never again,” my mom sobbed.
I ran over to my mother and sunk into her outstretched arms. That night, I went to sleep content and thinking about the events that had transpired in my life, and I knew I wasn’t lying when I told my mom that my brother and father were happy, together, wherever they were.
School was the same as always the next day, but when I came home, I felt like something was different. I walked up my front porch steps and realized with a jolt that the sign, BEWARE OF THE DRAGON had been taken down, and again, I put my ear to the door and listened, not sure what to expect when all of a sudden I heard the door click and open, and I fell into my mother’s arms.
“Welcome home son,” her smile revived my soul.
“I love you. Welcome back, Mom.”
I hadn’t believed it at first. It was a preposterous idea, only being able to see everything in one color. The world was meant to be seen in brilliant hues, of every tint that you could imagine. How could something be taken away so easily? How could the entire world be doused in purple once you open your eyes?
Besides, when a mysterious, trenchcoated messenger comes to your doorstep and awkwardly hands you an envelope officially sealed with wax that warns you of only seeing in purple, it isn’t exactly comfortable to digest.
My first instinct was to squeeze my eyes shut so tightly that I began to see spots behind my closed eyelids. That was what made nightmares vanish into thin air, what made them retreat to the dark depths of your mind, right? This was only a figment of my imagination. It had to be. Seeing everything in different hues of a single color wasn’t normal. None of this was normal.
I allowed my eyes to slowly, slowly, slowly flicker open. The room wasn’t purple anymore. Instead, it had turned to different shades and tints of red.
The letter had said that this would happen as well.
This is completely natural, the letter had claimed in a neat, medium-sized scrawl. Do not be alarmed.
I attempted to push myself up into a sitting position. My elbows buckled underneath my weight and I crashed back against the unbelievably soft mattress and pillow that I had been resting on. Instead of trying again, though, I lay against my mattress and stared at the now-scarlet ceiling, trying desperately to recall what had happened before this when I realized something.
There were no windows.
I was in a room with no windows.
It was a familiar room, I knew that much. I remembered noting that the room was windowless before I had slipped into an inky black unconsciousness. I had never been in such a room. It made me feel enclosed, like a bird in a cage.
Except birds could see the outside world through bars, and I couldn’t.
I found it strange that I could remember entering the room, but I couldn’t place why I had done it or what I had been doing before that. It was as if my entire life were deleted from my memory, save the man with his official-looking letter.
A door that I hadn’t noticed before slid open automatically to admit a lady in a plain dress and clipboard. She was older than I was, and her hair was tied up in a tight bun with not a single hair out of place. Despite her orderly appearance, her eyes were kind – almost motherly. If I could have moved, my muscles would have been relaxing.
She took a step towards me, jotting something down, and then moving her eyes to look at me. Her mouth moved to say a friendly “hello.” With a jolt, I realized that I could barely hear her. It was almost as if she were speaking underwater, voice muffled and movements soft and flowy, like liquid.
The clipboard was set down beside my arm; I could feel it brush against me just barely as the lady leaned over, placing her palm flat against my forehead and then prodding at my arm. A sharp pain shot up. I almost cried out. I probably would have, had my mouth been light enough to form that simple sound.
“Has your arm been bothering you?” Her voice was louder this time, and I could understand it as she rolled up my sleeve. It took nearly all of my energy to turn my head to the side to see what she was doing, instead of replying like a normal person would.
I didn’t see much, just a bandage on my arm. My flesh burned as if it were on fire under the coverings, stung as if a thousand bees were attacking that one specific spot all simultaneously. Tears pricked my eyelids. I didn’t understand why the pain was registering now, when I had been okay before.
Carefully, the lady began to unwrap my arm. Every movement caused the pain to grow stronger and my teeth subconsciously gritted together to hold back my scream. A cold sweat broke out upon my forehead, my breathing became shallow, my head began to spin…
Until, suddenly, everything screeched to a complete and utter halt. The pain was lifted immediately.
I blinked once, ignoring how the color red turned to blue. “What-“
“It’s the injection,” the woman explained calmly, her expression never changing into one of alarm. “You’re having a reaction.”
“A reaction?” I managed to get out, realizing that it was far easier to move now, though it wasn’t completely effortless. Not yet. “What injection?”
As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I remembered the shot. It had happened when I had first entered the room, sat on the bed. It was a different lady who had given it to me, though. With a firm mouth and unkind eyes and gray hair pulled back into a strict bun as well. The shot had lasted for only a few seconds, and I didn’t remember much after that. I figured that was when I had blacked out.
“The letter explained everything,” her voice was almost soothing. “We have to make sure that your body can handle the real thing.”
“This isn’t the real thing?”
The woman stopped, her hand pausing over her clipboard, hovering as if unsure whether or not she should pick it up and jot down more notes. She grabbed ahold of it after apparently daring herself to, avoiding my eyes. “It could be, if it works.”
Another pain sprang up in my arm, but this time it was farther down, by my wrist. My mouth shaped a question, but before I could ask the one word that was on my lips, I looked down at my wrist, where the darkened blueness of my veins was rearranging, standing out against the paleness of my skin. It hurt, but I was far too fascinated to say anything. Instead, I watched as numbers etched their way underneath my skin, a dull pain still there as the last number melted away every second, changing, counting down. My eyes couldn’t tear themselves away. Not even as I felt the bile rising up in my throat.
I could hear the smile in the lady’s voice as she said, “Congratulations. You are officially the first person in history who knows exactly, to the minute, when they’ll die.”
I turned towards her, eyes widening and voice catching in my throat as she lifted her pen and checked something off on her clipboard.
Congratulations. You are officially the first person in history who knows exactly, to the minute, when they’ll die.
What does the end of the world look like to you?
Do the oceans drop off?
Does the world stop spinning?
Does the sky fall?
Are the lands flooded by rain,
or are we cooked by the sun?
Do the zombies take over?
Do we fight till the end?
Do we fight at all?
Look at me after I have lost you,
and that’s what the end of my world looks like
There once was a very small guy,
Who ’round other people was shy.
But from his news class,
His rep spread out fast.
Who’d know that that shy guy was I?
This is a poem that shines
In the place where shadows grow colder
That dances
Because it’s free
Because it comforts
And when longing sets in
And desperation rips at the heart
This is a poem that sings
Where the voices are silent
And the lost are found
My mother is going to kill me
This party is out of control
There are stains on the new sofa
Our glass vase is in pieces
This party is out of control
The house is completely trashed
Our glass vase is in pieces
The police are at the door
The house is completely trashed
The bass is far too strong
The police are at the door
There’s a stranger in the kitchen
The bass is far too strong
Family photos are being knocked over
There’s a stranger in the kitchen
The police are tied up in the closet
Family photos are being knocked over
There are stains on the new sofa
The police are tied up in the closet
My mother is going to kill me
Life isn’t about money,
How much you make a year
What your benefits are
Or how big your office is
Life isn’t about love,
Who you text through the night
Who you stalk on Facebook
Or being “forever alone”
Life isn’t about school
Which ones you go to
Which ones you graduate from
Or which ones you fail out of
Life isn’t about laws
Letting others control you
Letting it bind you
Or letting it confine
Life is about war
Who you make a treaty with
Who you will lay siege to
And how you will spread your influence and empire
Life is about surviving
How you will just get by
How you will adapt
And how you will carry on with bruises and scars
Life is about destruction
What you will set ablaze
What you will reap
And what you will sacrifice to get what you want
Life is about time
At eighteen-years old, I am not even thinking about twenty or thirty years from now because, honestly, I don’t know how I’ll look in twenty or thirty years.
One thing’s for sure, I’ll probably have kids and be too lazy to work out, so “yay” to being fat. But right now, I have to worry about an unbearable underbite like Michelle Obama, but at least she has money for surgery to change that in a day. I am going to have to go through the torture of braces. I can’t wait!
And let’s not even get into talking about my wide feet. My feet are so wide I have to get shoes custom made, so imagine twenty years from now. Thinking about it makes me have a headache.
And if that’s not bad enough, I am the laziest person when it comes to shaving my legs. My legs are so hairy, like the infamous Sasquatch. Don’t tell anyone, but people sometimes mistake me for Bigfoot’s daughter.
If all those things don’t get to you, my dad has this Daddy-knows-best attitude, so he convinced me that it doesn’t matter how you look. People will accept you for who you are, but not when you wear dorky glasses. I have really bad eyes, and I can’t see a darn thing, so I have to wear around these geeky glasses that make people laugh at me. Dad knows best? That’s a laugh.
So, after writing this, in twenty or thirty-years, I realize I won’t be lazy, and I’ll work out every day, and shave my legs, too. I also will get braces, so I can have a beautiful smile like Jessica Alba. And there is nothing I can do about my wide feet, so I guess I got to just deal with it. And I’ll get contacts, so I don’t need to walk around with this magnifying glass on my face.
In thirty years, I can’t wait to see myself!
I only have one memory of my brother, and that was what he looked like when he lay in his coffin. I was about 10 at the time, and my brother peaked at 20. He was some sort of musician, or whatever, and all I can remember about him was that he was sleeping in a box with people looking at him. Our parents were crying, and some music – I think it may have been his – played as we filed past.
From then on there was no music in our house. No one listened, no one played, and if I started humming I was glared – or whacked – into silence. So on it went. Life passed by without color or sound, just a black and white world that I had to endure.
Eventually when I got into high school, I grew to dislike music. My mind blocking out all the noise as someone opened their mouths to sing or picked up an instrument. I was content, kept to myself and participated in life.
Then one day after school, while I stayed back to work on something I saw her. She seemed nice enough. I had seen her only once before, something had changed her. Such a beautiful person roaming the halls, it was like she came out of a fairy tale.
Then I heard it, softly at first, growing louder until it was a cascade of pitches and melodies: this was music. Like the appearance of lightning, my world was changed; immediately colors filled my view with such vibrancy it was almost unbelievable. This torrent of life sprang from music and from one person. I then knew what I had been missing for so long, not only music, but love and other emotions that were closed off when my brother died, such emotions that I was refused so that I would not have to undergo such pain again. Music and love.
I walked into class after a long school day
Standing in the back row
With some gym shorts on and a casual shirt
Ready to dance for the first time
I watched everyone bust a move
Thinking of what step came next
“Take it one at a time, now don’t you rush,
Just do what feels right.”
It started
Our dance is the pop, lock, drop
That one-two step, shuffling left and right
When we’re home alone, with no thought we go
Just because this is our show
Our dance is the club fist pump
That dougie with swag, cat daddy down real fast
All night at home, it just pounds in my head
With the speakers maxed, dancing all over again
Star gazing makes me wonder. It makes me confused, but leaves me in awe, all at the same time. Its twinkling light flashes a sense of reassurance and positivity. It lets me know that I am much smaller than the universe.
This star is my friend; it knows my deepest secrets, desires, and dreams. I can trust it, knowing it wouldn’t tell another soul, and I admire this star for that.
The subtle glow of its sparkling face makes me blush and makes me feel unworthy sometimes. But I know it’s here for me, because my little star shows up, same spot in the sky every single night. Never lets me down, never too far away. The star stays quiet, never says a word as words endlessly spill out of my mouth.
The star’s glow is so bright from night to night, guiding me on, pushing me along with optimism. I am pushed along but never by forceful acts. Instead, effortlessly I move along with my little friend, the star. I anticipate every night until my eyes meet the star’s wonderful shine; I anticipate the moment when I can tell it how my day went. Conversations can be held for hours until the sleepy Mr. Moon descends into the dark abyss of the horizon.
Sometimes my little star will stay with me until dusk approaches, and the sky turns from a shadowy black to a new morning. I tell the star “good night,” and with that, it disappears until the night fall.
There’s never enough time during the night to be with the star, so every moment is cherished.
I became friends with this star a while ago and since then our friendship has bloomed into a story of reliance, trust, and understanding. There’s no other star in the sky that I would choose or be happier with. I’m content with my pick, my little star that shines in the night sky.
First, turn on all the lights. Light is the most important weapon. Light is a monster’s weakness. Light will force all the monsters to stay hidden or out of sight. If you absolutely cannot keep the lights on, due to the cost of electricity or the brightness disturbing another family member, use night lights. Keeping a night light and a flashlight close by is also essential. Never ever be caught in the shadowy dark.
Secondly, keep your room clean. In case the monsters try to venture out of hiding spots, a clean room will not allow them to hide just anywhere. Also, a clean room will allow you to maneuver easily.
Next, always close your closet. After using a closet for practical daily needs, shut the door. Monsters are formed in the closet. The monsters cannot come outside if the door is shut.
Another thing is to jam all large belongings under the bed. This guarantees that the underside of your bed will not become a cave for creatures. In addition, wearing socks is a great defense against monsters that creep on your toes or bite them off. House slippers would probably work even better.
Finally, remember that your blanket is your refuge. Hide under your blanket for absolute security. Your blanket is a force field. You will know if a monster has been after you in the night if you wake up in the morning and your blanket is on the floor. Your trusted teddy bear should be there too in order to protect you. Also, sleeping with a baseball bat isn’t a bad idea. Good luck and good night.
When I was just a wee little lad, I idolized Mr. Bond, James Bond. He was the most amazing super spy I ever saw. He got all the girls, wore all the nicest suits, and liked his martini shaken not stirred. How could anybody not like him? He was quite the charismatic fellow. With the help of Q, his weapons expert, Bond got the coolest gadgets and guns that were almost out of this world.
My friends and I used to watch the movies together and try out some of the stunts he did but we failed at with a “schhlapp” and a “wooopang.” It was all in good fun.
I looked up what it took to be a double O and always practiced my target blasting just in case. I bought all the video games with James Bond in them and occasionally wore my communion tuxedo to try to act the part.
James Bond did no wrong with his wild black hair whipping like a flag in the wind as he fought off a bad guy who tried to kill him as he drove.
The first day of school, the teacher was taking roll and asked, “What is your name?”
In response I answered, “The name’s Godsey, Dylan Godsey.”
Unfortunately she didn’t find it very amusing and sent me to time-out where I would whistle out the theme song “dun na dun na dun nana dun na dunna dun.”
Galloping home I pretended I was in an Aston Martin and I was tagging down Dr. No.
What a wonderful life that was, but I grew up and Mr. Bond became a memory of the past. My love for action and adventure was cemented over by reality and school.
I go to this euphoria while I sit and think. It is not here nor there, but in my head. There are hills of red in every shade like a pastel rendition of the Grand Canyon. There is nobody, nothing around to hear me.
Water rushes down a river rolling over a cliff making a long, beautiful waterfall. I look to the sky and see both day and night peacefully coexisting. The water sounds like a shower head pouring out and hitting the sides of an empty tub. The smell of pine trees fill the air as you see the trees lined up like a fence along the red hills. The dampened ground sticks to your feet as you walk. The ground shakes with the crashing of the waterfall at the bottom of the cliff.
Serenity is this place, no hate, no problems, no concerns for anything volatile. The air is fresh and tastes of vapors and honey. All is well ‘til I leave this place again trading my hills for buildings, my rivers for roads, and my fresh air for that of vog and pollution.
A smooth seashell sits with its opening on top. Its rounded shape and grayish colors gives it a dull look. It doesn’t shimmer or glow. Tarnished rim, chipped sides, and filled with dust, it holds years of dryness and never being inhabited. Four black stripes run down its back, faded over time. This isn’t a gloomy, depressing shade but the relaxing gray that floats in the sky on rainy days. A tip of a rhinoceros horn, blunted and worn through countless victorious battles. A warm, cozy bed for a lost puppy; it hugs the cute, fuzzy animal with its smooth insides. And on the outside is that soothing dim tan that comforts the young and frightened creatures.
parents (n): 1.The people who continue to nag you to do your homework. 2. Your legal guardians till you turn 18 years old. 3. The people you have to listen to fight. 4. The people you mimic when they turn their back. 5. The people you then complain about to your friends on Facebook. Synonym: guardian. Antonym: peer
brothers (n): 1.The people who leave dishes everywhere around the house. 2. The reason why you would rather read a book because you don’t want to watch cartoons all night. 3. The reason why boys are scared to talk to you. 4. The reason why you don’t want your friends to sleep over. See: irritating. Synonym: loser. Antonym: cool.
I am a wanderer through this written journey
Sword in hand I’m off to chart a new course
I travel through forests of ideas
Over plains of here-and-there I ride
To distant shores with dragon’s pride
Imagination my guide, I fight the world:
Doubters, critics, the armies of Bleak
And Despair
My wealth is boundless,
But I give it to you
My name is Writer, this is my wandering journey
This is a collaborative story written by Anuhea and Melia.
Kids swarmed all around me, jumping like resltess frogs in and out of the water. Geez, I hate Saturdays!
Being a lifeguard (part time) can be a very stressful job at times. During the week is not so bad, mostly swim teams and old people go to the community pool. But, on the weekds, children from all over come.
There was this kid, a little chubby boy who always wears the same swim trunks every weekend. He’s been coming to the pool for about a year now so he is practically a regular.
As I was scanning the poolside, I noticed something strange floating in the water. I got my binoculars to take a better look and immediately recognized the mysterious floating object. It was the boy’s neon orange swim trunks. In my head I was bursting with laughter. I scanned the pool to try to find the boy, but he was nowhere in sight, so I climbed off my lifeguard chair and immediately went to grab the floating trunks.
As I swam back to the edge, swim trunks in hand, I spotted a large white figure on my lifeguard chair. It was him! The chubby boy had wrapped my red rescue tube around his…area…and was sitting my chair like he owned the place!
I quickly jumped out of the water and knocked the boy off my chair and grabbed my tube. He then lay naked on the pool deck embarassed and exposed. He never came back to the pool.
Geez, I hate Saturdays!
The sad thing about Happiness,
Is that it always goes away;
An all too welcomed guest,
That never wants to stay.
When I was somewhat younger,
It all seemed back and white.
You could work hard to achieve it,
And it came when the time was right.
And when it came it felt,
Like sand beneath my feet;
A contentedness that seemed,
Typical and neat.
And when it went away,
I wasn’t sad at all;
The way I felt when seasons changed,
From summer into fall.
But then a strange thing happened,
And it was then I knew,
That I was never happy ‘til
I fell in love with you.
Then happiness became,
A carousel of lights,
A parade of violins,
An endless starry night.
Every sound was choral,
And every taste was sweet,
And everything was everything,
But typical and neat.
And then I thought that maybe,
I would never cry again,
And never did I think,
That Happiness would end.
But then beloved Happiness,
Packed up its bags and went.
So suddenly it bailed,
That it didn’t pay the rent.
And then when precious summer,
Mutated into fall,
I cried waking up from dreams,
After not sleeping at all.
Old Happiness comes to visit,
Every once in a while.
Guilty, it pays out generously,
In laughing fits and smiles.
But these days when I’m happy,
I’m equally afraid;
Anticipating all the while,
When it will go away.
Do you ever dream of better things?
I do all the time.
I dream of sparkling cities & glorious wings
of angels who are kind.
I do all the time.
I imagine happy days in beautiful places
of angels who are kind,
where love could be contagious.
I imagine happy days in beautiful places
far away, where no one knows me,
where love could be contagious,
where hate doesn’t roam free.
Far away, where no one knows me,
I could be someone amazing.
Where hate doesn’t roam free,
I could be someone worth saving.
I could be someone amazing.
I dream of sparkling cities & glorious wings.
I could be someone worth saving.
Do you ever dream of better things?
Dear Reader,
I write this humble plea from the confines of my home office. I have been trapped here for 2 weeks straight, held captive by Carrie, my wife of 5 years. You see I started on this novel-writing journey after New Years. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, and my lovely wife and I decided to pursue our darkest desires this year. Unfortunately hers turned out to include kickboxing and my poor innocent face. Nose job aside, I’m so close to being done!
But neither of us had any idea of the cost of printing such massive amounts of creative genius. I have 20 more pages to go and no money. We’ve mortgaged the house, sold the kids, and stopped eating on odd days. And although our newly trim physiques require less calorie intake and Carrie now believes that full stomachs are for sissies (thanks to her trainer Gus) I really miss the kids and dinner consisting of more than two raw eggs (shaken not stirred). So Carrie locked me in the office until I finish.
When I was but a lad of 23 years my paternal grandparents took a trip to Maui. A corny shirt or postcard would have been appreciated, but they felt the need to bring me back two old bottles. I have never felt the love more than at that moment. I mean, you can never have enough useless junk lying around the house right?
It turns out that at my local Wal-Mart printer paper costs $6.99 plus tax. With my finely honed research skills sharpened from endless nights on Google researching remote rainforests in Southwest Cambodia, I have concluded that I can sell these bottles for $9, leaving me with $2.01 to buy the wife something nice from the nearest vending machine. She is so lucky to have a guy like me. With that 50 pack of crisp white paper I can finish this horror of a project and use the bestseller proceeds to free my children from forced labor.
Like a proper prisoner I have taken to tallying my imprisoned days on the wall via a letter opener and paperweight chisel. She is not going to be happy when she releases me from my wallpapered prison but it makes this feel legit. Like I’m a modern day Nelson Mandela. Or something.
Reader, I don’t think I’ve mentioned this but I am in fact capable of defending myself from would-be assassins bent on locking me in my own house. Or I was until Carrie really started getting into those workouts. In class they learned war tactics that may or may not have been taught to her by members of Spetsnaz. With her newfound aggression she drugged and bound me in the dead of night. Which is why I write to you in the beautiful world of Craigslist begging for a purchase.
So reader, buy the bottles because the world really needs my 5,567-page novel on the dangers of tile flooring. And I would appreciate being able to see daylight again.
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