Revision: the most necessary yet least joyful part of the writing process. And, it certainly isn’t a part of the writing process with which I take a proactive approach. No, it feels…bothersome. Yes, I know that it is necessary, but I don’t tend to push myself to revise. I have other things that I can be doing, if I’m going to take time from my life and partake in the writing process then why not use that time for the creative portion of the process? One can always revise later, when he actually has something to revise.
I shall definitely revise my fiction piece; out of all the means of writing I have a greater love of fiction than the others. And, I know what I want to change and how I shall change my short story. I can create and develop fully-fledged characters. While it is a fictional story I aim to integrate elements of real life into the story. Yes, non-fiction is real life, but with a fictional story I have artistic liberty. I don’t feel the need to stay as close to the facts as possible.
I am not sure whether I’d prefer to revise to revise my poem or my non-fictional piece. I like both pieces, but I’m not well versed in either genre. I don’t consider myself terrible at either means of writing, but I don’t think that I have enough practice and do not yet consider myself exceptional. I have never before looked back at my poetry and revised it. I usually look at poetry while I write it and choose what to do with each line. I look at the poetry and decide whether the message, diction, and structure follow my desired form. I know a rhyme scheme is not necessary in poems, but I try not to use them in every poem. There are certain poems that are work with a rhyme scheme and certain pieces that are brought down by one.
In addition, I have the non-fiction piece to consider. Neither do I have an overwhelmingly positive feeling nor do I have an overwhelmingly negative feeling about the piece. It’s more of a personal narrative essay than a great creative non-fiction piece. So, I’ll wait to see what everyone says this class before I decide on my second piece.
~Nitesh Arora
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Revising
Starting the revision process was what was the most difficult for me. Though I had a wealth of comments from the workshops, and a general idea of what I wanted to change, sifting through the comments and then making the decisions about what was and was not relevant was tedious and, in a lot of cases, counterproductive. A lot of the comments I received were conflicting, so what I ended up relying on, when it came to considering the feedback, were issues common concern, issues that were raised by quite a few people. There were several people who were very generous with their commentary and then there were people who would write one or two words, here and there, with little elaboration. Those were the comments I found least helpful and those were the comments I chose to ignore. When I eliminated the “fluff” then the revision process was more streamlined and a lot easier to handle. That feeling of being overwhelmed was relatively brief and, right now, I feel pretty good about the changes I have made. I haven’t worked out any major changes, but the majority of the comments suggest minor tweaks here and there, especially with the poem. My fiction piece is going to consume a lot more time and energy because I feel that the most drastic changes are wrapped up in the structure of the story. Structure seems to be a weaker aspect of my writing, so that is what I have been focusing on in the revision process.
-Samantha Markey
-Samantha Markey
RRR
I've chosen to revise my poetry piece in hopes of both improving myself and gaining a better respect for poetry that I currently have. I really enjoy writing single stanzas, but I dont like leaving so much unstated or poorly outlined. Is odd at the same time, that I wish I had just done a haiku, which for some reason I feel is more deliberate and straightforward than a lengthy poem.
In contrast, revising my fiction peice has been much easier. I enjoy a story and the infinite ways in which it can be structured in a manner that speaks just as poetically. At first I was concerned that I could not find the original file on my computer, but rewriting it from the beginning with my printed drafts in front of me has been both easy and I think very benefitial to the process.
Brian Walker
In contrast, revising my fiction peice has been much easier. I enjoy a story and the infinite ways in which it can be structured in a manner that speaks just as poetically. At first I was concerned that I could not find the original file on my computer, but rewriting it from the beginning with my printed drafts in front of me has been both easy and I think very benefitial to the process.
Brian Walker
Revisions
Hmmm revision? What’s that? Jk. I’ve chosen my nonfiction and short story pieces to revise. Since I haven’t received comments or feedback on my nonfiction piece yet I’ve done little more than correcting sentences I’ve found awkward or changed certain word choices.
As for my short story I figured that the best way for me to improve my short story was to simply write more of it. I still need my story to clearly depict the conflict happening to the main character and her situation with this online mystery man. I also chose to take out many of the characters that didn’t recur to avoid further confusion. So far I’ve enjoyed writing both pieces, though creating the hostess in my short story proved to be more enjoyable. Her personality gets to really show since the format is a diary, which gives me pretty much free reign over anything I want her to say or do. She doesn’t have to be barred from saying her convictions. We are reading something private after all.
Samantha Audet
As for my short story I figured that the best way for me to improve my short story was to simply write more of it. I still need my story to clearly depict the conflict happening to the main character and her situation with this online mystery man. I also chose to take out many of the characters that didn’t recur to avoid further confusion. So far I’ve enjoyed writing both pieces, though creating the hostess in my short story proved to be more enjoyable. Her personality gets to really show since the format is a diary, which gives me pretty much free reign over anything I want her to say or do. She doesn’t have to be barred from saying her convictions. We are reading something private after all.
Samantha Audet
Fixing and... stuff - Tomas F
I chose to revise my fiction and non-fiction pieces. I’m not particularly well-versed enough in poetry to justify an attempt to work on that piece, so instead I chose to go with prose.
It’s always interesting to revisit a piece, especially for me since I only tend to spot problems after I have it in my hand and turn it in. Looking back at my fiction piece “Border,” it becomes rather painful for me to read, finding glaring problems in its stilted structure, with the beginning being a major flaw. The characterization could be improved to say the least, and it feels like that it could easily be more fleshed out. The protagonist feels far too… whiny, I suppose, which was partially intended, but maybe taken to an extreme. The idea to completely scrap it and write something else is tempting, but I still feel like it’s just a decent concept that could use some more attention and rearrangements.
The nonfiction piece I was happier with, mostly since I thought the increased presence of dialogue made it flow much better. I tried to focus on showing versus telling and it came out much better than I expected as a result. As always, writing about a rather personal event (even with changing names and taking “creative liberties”) is a bit awkward and embarrassing, but I feel like that story only needs retouching, as opposed to the reworking that my fiction piece needs. It reads and flows well enough for me to be happy with it as is, and I’ll be glad to improve it even more.
It’s much easier to edit and fix a piece that’s already written as opposed to writing an entirely new one, but revision is by far the most important process in making a piece truly work.
It’s always interesting to revisit a piece, especially for me since I only tend to spot problems after I have it in my hand and turn it in. Looking back at my fiction piece “Border,” it becomes rather painful for me to read, finding glaring problems in its stilted structure, with the beginning being a major flaw. The characterization could be improved to say the least, and it feels like that it could easily be more fleshed out. The protagonist feels far too… whiny, I suppose, which was partially intended, but maybe taken to an extreme. The idea to completely scrap it and write something else is tempting, but I still feel like it’s just a decent concept that could use some more attention and rearrangements.
The nonfiction piece I was happier with, mostly since I thought the increased presence of dialogue made it flow much better. I tried to focus on showing versus telling and it came out much better than I expected as a result. As always, writing about a rather personal event (even with changing names and taking “creative liberties”) is a bit awkward and embarrassing, but I feel like that story only needs retouching, as opposed to the reworking that my fiction piece needs. It reads and flows well enough for me to be happy with it as is, and I’ll be glad to improve it even more.
It’s much easier to edit and fix a piece that’s already written as opposed to writing an entirely new one, but revision is by far the most important process in making a piece truly work.
Revision- Ashley S
Revisions, Revisions, Revisions. I have so many new ideas and things to put with my Recisions. I choose to revise my nonfiction and fiction. The hardest part for me is to get started. I know that I want to make revisions but where to make them where not to make them is sometimes difficult. Also finding the time to make my revisions is hard. I work full time so by the end of the day I''m so sleepy the last thing I want to do is work on revisions. I also find it difficult deleting paragraphs. I feel as if I worked so hard on those paragraphs, I just can't take them out of my story. I like adding to my stories I am having a hard time taking things out of my stories. It's coming along slowly but it's coming.
Ummmmmmmm... Let's try this
I decided to revise the fiction and non-fiction pieces for my final portfolio. It wasn't so much because I was happy with the poem that I wrote as I was unhappy with the final product in my two short stories.
I have not gotten to the non-fiction piece yet, but I do understand that there is a lot to get done with it. I wish to make it more descriptive and emotional, but I don't want the thing to drag on, as it is about me walking in the snow for a very long time. I will get more creative with it, it's just a difficult thing. I want to be able to control the emotions of the reader with that piece, and it is always difficult to do that without taking to many liberties with what actually happened. I'll figure it out, though.
The fiction piece is one of my favorites that I have ever written. Not in terms of the finished product, but as far as story goes. I have elongated the beginning and put some back story in. I am contemplating whether or not I want to keep the back story though, because it makes the story seem less effective in my mind. I would very much like to get more descriptive with this piece as well. David's critique of my first draft made me realize that sometimes my blunt writing has a tendency to be counter-productive because the power of some of the text is overshadowed by less significant text. The parts that were confusing towards the end are being cleared up and I have started to find a more cohesive and enjoyable story within the piece.
D. Ryan
I have not gotten to the non-fiction piece yet, but I do understand that there is a lot to get done with it. I wish to make it more descriptive and emotional, but I don't want the thing to drag on, as it is about me walking in the snow for a very long time. I will get more creative with it, it's just a difficult thing. I want to be able to control the emotions of the reader with that piece, and it is always difficult to do that without taking to many liberties with what actually happened. I'll figure it out, though.
The fiction piece is one of my favorites that I have ever written. Not in terms of the finished product, but as far as story goes. I have elongated the beginning and put some back story in. I am contemplating whether or not I want to keep the back story though, because it makes the story seem less effective in my mind. I would very much like to get more descriptive with this piece as well. David's critique of my first draft made me realize that sometimes my blunt writing has a tendency to be counter-productive because the power of some of the text is overshadowed by less significant text. The parts that were confusing towards the end are being cleared up and I have started to find a more cohesive and enjoyable story within the piece.
D. Ryan
Progession or Regression?
Revision is difficult if there isn't enough time to reflect on what works and what needs work in the piece. I wrote about six nonfiction pieces and finally wrote one that satisfied me yesterday, and it's hard to revise because I haven't had enough time away from it. However, the fiction piece is easy to revise, because I've had a span of time where I didn't change or read it. Because of that, I was able to go back and add/delete things that needed changing.
"Asphyxiation" isn't perfect by any means, but it seems as though with every revision, it is developing into something greater and greater. I don't mean in length, but I mean in meaning. It feels as though the message is becoming clearer and stronger, and I'm happy about that.
As for the nonfiction piece, it's not where I want it to be. I'm not really sure if it will ever get to a point where I'll be somewhat satisfied with it. Maybe it's because I don't like writing about myself; I always find it hard not to trip on my own words and sound either incredibly angry or self-deprecating. For some people, writing nonfiction comes easily, but for me, I can't seem to do it. I also don't like talking about myself to other people in normal conversation, so maybe that's part of it too. In any case, nonfiction is killing me.
As for the poetry, I'm pretending I never wrote that. It feels sappy and leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I wish I could write poetry like Billy Collins, but I can't boil down my emotions to concentrate and mold it into poetry.
I hope to edit the nonfiction as best I can, but I may change my mind again. I've been doing that a lot recently.
"Asphyxiation" isn't perfect by any means, but it seems as though with every revision, it is developing into something greater and greater. I don't mean in length, but I mean in meaning. It feels as though the message is becoming clearer and stronger, and I'm happy about that.
As for the nonfiction piece, it's not where I want it to be. I'm not really sure if it will ever get to a point where I'll be somewhat satisfied with it. Maybe it's because I don't like writing about myself; I always find it hard not to trip on my own words and sound either incredibly angry or self-deprecating. For some people, writing nonfiction comes easily, but for me, I can't seem to do it. I also don't like talking about myself to other people in normal conversation, so maybe that's part of it too. In any case, nonfiction is killing me.
As for the poetry, I'm pretending I never wrote that. It feels sappy and leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I wish I could write poetry like Billy Collins, but I can't boil down my emotions to concentrate and mold it into poetry.
I hope to edit the nonfiction as best I can, but I may change my mind again. I've been doing that a lot recently.
The Revision Process
I am tackling the revision process the same way I would most things in my life in as organized a fashion that I can muster so I won’t miss anything and not rush myself through the process. I’m a terrible procrastinator (though sometimes my best work comes from instances where I waited until a few days prior to put my final touches on something). I don’t, however want to take that approach now because I’ve learned that there will be times when I sit down to write and will only come up with a blank sheet of paper. I always felt like that was some major flaw in my writing and something I could correct. I realize if I start out by giving myself an adequate amount of time it will be okay to have those glitches in my writing process. I will be revising my short story, Finding Mother where I was fairly happy with the first draft and my poem Give It a Rest which I thought was very bad. Maybe not so much “bad” as in it is likely the draft that will need the most work and be the hardest to come to a final decision (and right now I’m thinking of starting from scratch) so that my readers can really appreciate it and enjoy it.
This past weekend I read through all the comments that were provided in workshop and put them in order of the ones where similar items were called out and the one or two comments that only a couple of individuals brought to my attention. This week I plan on summarizing the issues into a condensed format that I can have on hand as I start working on each draft and then start to mark up my drafts with the hope to have a second draft ready by next class, then work over the weekend and hopefully have a decent finished product early next week for both the short story and the poem.
Cindy Davis
This past weekend I read through all the comments that were provided in workshop and put them in order of the ones where similar items were called out and the one or two comments that only a couple of individuals brought to my attention. This week I plan on summarizing the issues into a condensed format that I can have on hand as I start working on each draft and then start to mark up my drafts with the hope to have a second draft ready by next class, then work over the weekend and hopefully have a decent finished product early next week for both the short story and the poem.
Cindy Davis
Revision
I have mixed emotions about the revisions. I want to revise my papers so that I can improve them and get a deeper idea for myself so that I can clearly and concisely get my point across to my audience. However, I am not exactly looking forward to sitting down and critiquing these papers with everything else that I have to attend to at this time. I am revising my creative nonfiction piece and my flash nonfiction piece. I chose these two-pieces because I believe that I enjoyed reading them the most so I figured why not make them better so that maybe other people might enjoy reading them also. I believe what is going well for me is the fact that I am considering many different aspect for my revision. I am including many other ideas for improvement to my papers. My revising is allowing me the opportunity to make adjustments that I might not have made before. For example, I can make a better description for a character or I can edit a character by taking some features that he has and giving him other ones that will make him more understandable and enjoyable to the readers. I think the difficult part of the revision is trying to improve the story and the character without taking out specific parts of the story that I loved although it might not be the best fit for the story. After, I have put a story together that I completely love it is hard to scratch a specific part that I was excited I thought of when I first wrote the story. It is also hard to add parts to the story that I don't particularly enjoy and wouldn't relate to the story but I know will help the reader get a better understanding. But I know that when I am done revising my story should be much more exciting, enjoyable, and understanding to the reader.
Jaaziah Bethea.
Jaaziah Bethea.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Grow
I hear a faint ringing. It’s still there form a few nights ago. I remember the concert. Taking a high school friend I liked, Jen, to go see a Spanish synthpop band in a venue whose sole distinguishing factors were the cramped quarters and the emptied cans and sticky residue of Pabst Blue Ribbon on the floor. The wall of sound, the thick Spanish accent of the singer being overwhelmed by the lush, decadent instrumentation, sounded like 90’s club music with an 80’s alt-rock band thrown in for good measure. Layer after layer of synthesizer being added as songs went on, made it feel like those songs could go on infinitely. Dancing, strobe lights, waves of people, plaid shirts or not, jumping to the beat of the drum machine. We left very satisfied and excited and soon realized that we could barely hear each other speak. That post-concert ear ringing, more of a combination of high-pitch noise and a whoosh that stays stuck in your head after one too many hours standing next to the speakers. We laughed about it, holding each other up by arm as we walked back to th—
“Dude, dunk your nuts in that shit.”
Startled, I stop intensely staring at the salt shaker I was involuntarily handling and put it down. Steve, whose bearded face and gruff demeanor paralleled his speech pattern, spoke up. Pete sat there, laughing at the comment as he chowed down on his kebab sandwich. We were at Moby Dick House of Kebab. It was near closing time, so the place was, for the most part, empty. I realize that we were all talking… or something. “Uh, excuse me?”
“The hipster chick?”
“Uh… Jen or Sara?”
“Whoever was with us when we were at the pizza joint the other night.”
“Sara. She’s not a hipster. She listens to fucking Ricky Martin for god’s sake. Anyways, she has a boyfriend, remember? I’d rather not go around and try to compromise that by messing around with her anything…” Furrowed eyebrows glared at me. I remember talking to him about this before. Dammit. “…more than I already have already. Dammit dude, I’m not evil!”
“Stop being a pussy, man. He live around here?”
“…think he goes to JMU—“
“Then hit that shit like… like... like Chris Brown!” Pete and I cringe. He’s not very good with the similes.
“Oh, come on dude. What about Lisa, huh? Don’t tell me that didn’t suck completely. Especially her with that jackass.” For a split second, he held a sullen expression that betrayed his entire persona.
“Dude, that ogre? I can’t believe I actually tapped that! Or that anyone else would.” A wide smile on his face. He was back to normal.
“Well, whatever. I seriously can’t see myself with her anyways. We don’t exactly have much in common, and the 80’s pop star fascination and refusal to take anything seriously is… well, kind of a dealbreaker.” I tried to list the exact opposite traits Jen had to get Steve’s sometimes simplistically boorish sense of the world from intruding on my life once. I wonder if he ever plans to grow up.
Pete chimes in after finishing his sandwich in a sing-song voice “Fuck buddieeeees!”
Oh, Pete. “I fucking hate you. So anyways, I dunno. I want something to actually last this time? With someone I can actually envision myself being around on a regular basis.”
Steve, still laughing from Pete’s , picks up a doogh from the drink fridge, pays the cashier, and sits himself back down, chugging it down. That damn thing tastes like a watered down bottle of carbonated salty yogurt. Which it is. I never did understand why he always gets that when we’re here. He continues. “Anyways, I should call back that chick I met at that pizza place. Total freak, but man…”
“Weren’t you dating Mallorie?”
“Yeah, she’s all the way in Oregon now though. We decided to take a break. I’ll see her in December though, maybe get it on with her.
“Wait. Isn’t she Mormon?”
“Not like that’s gonna stop me from trying. Anyways, we gotta go. This place is about to close and Pete needs to get home. His parents are bitching about him getting home early tonight. And every fucking night from now on. Asshole.”
Pete speaks up. “Hey! Not my fault.”
“You’re the one who crashed their fucking car, retard.”
We walk back to Steve’s car, dropping off Pete before eventually driving me back, with little interesting occurring in between the few hours. I immediately head towards my bed and fell face first on the mattress. I have to close my ears now to hear the ringing again. It was starting to grow faint, as it usually does after a fairly long while. I might as well appreciate that haze of excitement, the energy that I associated with, absurdly enough, temporary hearing damage. It, after all, might not last.
“Dude, dunk your nuts in that shit.”
Startled, I stop intensely staring at the salt shaker I was involuntarily handling and put it down. Steve, whose bearded face and gruff demeanor paralleled his speech pattern, spoke up. Pete sat there, laughing at the comment as he chowed down on his kebab sandwich. We were at Moby Dick House of Kebab. It was near closing time, so the place was, for the most part, empty. I realize that we were all talking… or something. “Uh, excuse me?”
“The hipster chick?”
“Uh… Jen or Sara?”
“Whoever was with us when we were at the pizza joint the other night.”
“Sara. She’s not a hipster. She listens to fucking Ricky Martin for god’s sake. Anyways, she has a boyfriend, remember? I’d rather not go around and try to compromise that by messing around with her anything…” Furrowed eyebrows glared at me. I remember talking to him about this before. Dammit. “…more than I already have already. Dammit dude, I’m not evil!”
“Stop being a pussy, man. He live around here?”
“…think he goes to JMU—“
“Then hit that shit like… like... like Chris Brown!” Pete and I cringe. He’s not very good with the similes.
“Oh, come on dude. What about Lisa, huh? Don’t tell me that didn’t suck completely. Especially her with that jackass.” For a split second, he held a sullen expression that betrayed his entire persona.
“Dude, that ogre? I can’t believe I actually tapped that! Or that anyone else would.” A wide smile on his face. He was back to normal.
“Well, whatever. I seriously can’t see myself with her anyways. We don’t exactly have much in common, and the 80’s pop star fascination and refusal to take anything seriously is… well, kind of a dealbreaker.” I tried to list the exact opposite traits Jen had to get Steve’s sometimes simplistically boorish sense of the world from intruding on my life once. I wonder if he ever plans to grow up.
Pete chimes in after finishing his sandwich in a sing-song voice “Fuck buddieeeees!”
Oh, Pete. “I fucking hate you. So anyways, I dunno. I want something to actually last this time? With someone I can actually envision myself being around on a regular basis.”
Steve, still laughing from Pete’s , picks up a doogh from the drink fridge, pays the cashier, and sits himself back down, chugging it down. That damn thing tastes like a watered down bottle of carbonated salty yogurt. Which it is. I never did understand why he always gets that when we’re here. He continues. “Anyways, I should call back that chick I met at that pizza place. Total freak, but man…”
“Weren’t you dating Mallorie?”
“Yeah, she’s all the way in Oregon now though. We decided to take a break. I’ll see her in December though, maybe get it on with her.
“Wait. Isn’t she Mormon?”
“Not like that’s gonna stop me from trying. Anyways, we gotta go. This place is about to close and Pete needs to get home. His parents are bitching about him getting home early tonight. And every fucking night from now on. Asshole.”
Pete speaks up. “Hey! Not my fault.”
“You’re the one who crashed their fucking car, retard.”
We walk back to Steve’s car, dropping off Pete before eventually driving me back, with little interesting occurring in between the few hours. I immediately head towards my bed and fell face first on the mattress. I have to close my ears now to hear the ringing again. It was starting to grow faint, as it usually does after a fairly long while. I might as well appreciate that haze of excitement, the energy that I associated with, absurdly enough, temporary hearing damage. It, after all, might not last.
Nitesh Arora, Non-fiction
Dearest Roommate, Goodbye
Sitting at the large rectangular desk at the end of my hall, I heard the voices of all of my floormates enjoying their Saturday night. Apparently my hall had been unofficially dubbed as one of the party floors on campus, obvious to everyone but me. My floormates were squeezed into tiny dorm rooms blasting music through portable speakers, floors shaking because of the dancing and the large bass that had suddenly turned our ancient dorm rooms into covert dance clubs. Smuggling alcohol in juice bottles, they ran through our hall, nauseating odor of cheap booze wafting through the air. I sat alone at the end of the hall, studying. I wanted to go back into my room and sit in front of a desk that was actually mine, not a broken legged discolored chair in front of a desk meant for the hall. I wanted to have some peace and quiet while I was awake later than I wanted studying for tests that I was to have in slightly over twenty-four hours. I had paid just as much as my two other roommates to share our shoebox, with sane and mature roommates I would have been able to assert my right over my measly amount of space, allotted as my home for the year.
Since I became aware of the significance of August 27, 2009 as being Freshman Move-In Day I accepted that I’d have to share a room smaller than a prisoner’s cell with two other people. I hoped that my amicable nature would allow me to quickly become friends with my roommates. One of the few truly American pastimes I had enjoyed drilled into my head that roommates are legendary. These quintessential TV shows and movies showed guys meeting each other for the first time as they move in and growing to know each other so well that they would be chief characters through the entirety of each others’ lives, careers, weddings, children and all. My good fortune, however, had not struck. Freshman Move-In Day became another strike of reality for me.
My two roommates were John and Jake, the two Js. John became known as the tiny, adorable, stereotypical gay guy. Jake was the tall, came from military school, and said he hailed from Boston but his broken-English made us think differently. Whereas I awoke by 7:30 every morning both Jake and John slept in until the very last moment. While I finished my classes and returned to my room, John and I found Jake to occasionally return to the room and go to sleep around 6:00 AM. We had no idea where he went; sometimes we would just find army issued duffel bag missing and knew that we were safe. Jake had an eerie presence and lying about his background on multiple occasions had led us further away from trusting or feeling safe around him. Soon after classes began I noticed that Jake began to show dominance over both John and I and our room. Jake would mandate when the door could be open or closed, when music could be playing, and that any snacks in the room weren’t just the owner’s but to be shared by Jake. John would leave the room, drive home on weekends and sometimes sleep in friends’ rooms just to get away. With my parents four hours away, I did not have that privilege. No, Jake began to show his disdain for my “book-smart” personality, making cutting jokes about my not wanting to go to strange parties with him, not wanting to stay awake until the sunlight poked out of the sky, and not wanting to speak vulgarly. When Jake wanted to sleep he did and we were not allowed to get in his way. When I wanted to sleep, his music came streaming out of his amplifier and external speakers blasting until 4:00 AM meaning I had the opportunity to doze off in the first row of a twenty-three-person class. When I started to snore Jake started poking me, tapping me, pushing me, and hitting me. He leaned over from his top bunk and stretched his arm until it had reached the wall where I tried to hide from his “poking” and get sleep. Thus, I found myself a new home. The floor desk became known as my desk, where I could be expected to be reading, studying, emailing, and listening to music--anything to get away from Jake and avoid that room.
Every day, I would repeat to myself “Goodbye, dearest roommate, I hope to never see you again.” The day Jake was taken away by the police for assault became the last day I uttered my mantra and the first day that I started to breathe again.
Sitting at the large rectangular desk at the end of my hall, I heard the voices of all of my floormates enjoying their Saturday night. Apparently my hall had been unofficially dubbed as one of the party floors on campus, obvious to everyone but me. My floormates were squeezed into tiny dorm rooms blasting music through portable speakers, floors shaking because of the dancing and the large bass that had suddenly turned our ancient dorm rooms into covert dance clubs. Smuggling alcohol in juice bottles, they ran through our hall, nauseating odor of cheap booze wafting through the air. I sat alone at the end of the hall, studying. I wanted to go back into my room and sit in front of a desk that was actually mine, not a broken legged discolored chair in front of a desk meant for the hall. I wanted to have some peace and quiet while I was awake later than I wanted studying for tests that I was to have in slightly over twenty-four hours. I had paid just as much as my two other roommates to share our shoebox, with sane and mature roommates I would have been able to assert my right over my measly amount of space, allotted as my home for the year.
Since I became aware of the significance of August 27, 2009 as being Freshman Move-In Day I accepted that I’d have to share a room smaller than a prisoner’s cell with two other people. I hoped that my amicable nature would allow me to quickly become friends with my roommates. One of the few truly American pastimes I had enjoyed drilled into my head that roommates are legendary. These quintessential TV shows and movies showed guys meeting each other for the first time as they move in and growing to know each other so well that they would be chief characters through the entirety of each others’ lives, careers, weddings, children and all. My good fortune, however, had not struck. Freshman Move-In Day became another strike of reality for me.
My two roommates were John and Jake, the two Js. John became known as the tiny, adorable, stereotypical gay guy. Jake was the tall, came from military school, and said he hailed from Boston but his broken-English made us think differently. Whereas I awoke by 7:30 every morning both Jake and John slept in until the very last moment. While I finished my classes and returned to my room, John and I found Jake to occasionally return to the room and go to sleep around 6:00 AM. We had no idea where he went; sometimes we would just find army issued duffel bag missing and knew that we were safe. Jake had an eerie presence and lying about his background on multiple occasions had led us further away from trusting or feeling safe around him. Soon after classes began I noticed that Jake began to show dominance over both John and I and our room. Jake would mandate when the door could be open or closed, when music could be playing, and that any snacks in the room weren’t just the owner’s but to be shared by Jake. John would leave the room, drive home on weekends and sometimes sleep in friends’ rooms just to get away. With my parents four hours away, I did not have that privilege. No, Jake began to show his disdain for my “book-smart” personality, making cutting jokes about my not wanting to go to strange parties with him, not wanting to stay awake until the sunlight poked out of the sky, and not wanting to speak vulgarly. When Jake wanted to sleep he did and we were not allowed to get in his way. When I wanted to sleep, his music came streaming out of his amplifier and external speakers blasting until 4:00 AM meaning I had the opportunity to doze off in the first row of a twenty-three-person class. When I started to snore Jake started poking me, tapping me, pushing me, and hitting me. He leaned over from his top bunk and stretched his arm until it had reached the wall where I tried to hide from his “poking” and get sleep. Thus, I found myself a new home. The floor desk became known as my desk, where I could be expected to be reading, studying, emailing, and listening to music--anything to get away from Jake and avoid that room.
Every day, I would repeat to myself “Goodbye, dearest roommate, I hope to never see you again.” The day Jake was taken away by the police for assault became the last day I uttered my mantra and the first day that I started to breathe again.
Changing of the Guard
She was the “hip” Aunt. Aunt Mildred, the life of the party, the “fun” Aunt. Did it matter that she abandoned her son to live it up while her older sister took up her parental responsibilities? Did it matter that she drank too much and too often and spilled the beans about my hidden paternity in a drunken, laughing frenzy when I was only 13 years old? Every family has skeletons but I’m sure my parents didn’t want that one to jump out the closet at that moment. I’m sure my Mom wanted more time. I could tell because it was the first time I saw Mom cry.
Since she was the one to inform me that my Dad was my Dad in name only and that another man was actually my sperm donor, it was only fitting that when it came time to look him up that I would go to her. Sure enough, she was able to track him down and we all went to see him, this tall, larger than life man, so full of himself (and I wonder where I get it from). Looking at him was like looking at me, only with less hair. I didn’t want a relationship with the guy, only to know he existed and Aunt Mildred helped me fulfill that desire and she never told my Mom of our visit, she knew it would break her heart.
I remember one time I asked her what a speak easy was, she simply responded, “drugs, fun and funk,” and proceeded to take me across the street to the establishment that my parents always turned their nose up at as we drove by to get to her house. It really was nothing but a juke joint with tattered wooden floors and worn out stools next to the make-shift bar….it did smell pretty bad in there, I’m sure there was drug activity but it was too dark to see and if this was someone’s idea of fun, well, I pity them. The thing is I got to see it. Aunt Mildred was always willing to allow me to see the truth in life, the truth that I never would have learned growing up in suburbia where manicured lawns and dinner parties were standard.
When I heard she’d had a stroke I knew it had to be bad. She was always petite and 6 months in the hospital in recovery whittled her away to nothing. But unlike the other stroke victims I had known in my family, she can’t speak, all she can muster these days are mere grunts. I would imagine her lifestyle didn’t lend to having the best options in healthcare.
She exists now a shell of the fun and hip Aunt that I grew to love. That sly grin that was her trademark is the only thing the stroke didn’t take from her. Oh, and her appetite. I wonder did she ever imagine that this is how she would live out her later years? Does she have any regrets? What would she say to me if she could regain her speech, what advice would she give?
The one thing that befuddles me and probably will until the day I die is that my Mother is her caretaker. The sister who revealed her deepest, darkest secret and shattered her world when she thought a marriage and quick adoption could hide her teenage error. Obviously all is forgiven, right? In life we all experience the changing of the guard, but could either one of them imagine that their roles would morph into caregiver and invalid? One day I will have to ask both of them just that.
Cindy Davis
Since she was the one to inform me that my Dad was my Dad in name only and that another man was actually my sperm donor, it was only fitting that when it came time to look him up that I would go to her. Sure enough, she was able to track him down and we all went to see him, this tall, larger than life man, so full of himself (and I wonder where I get it from). Looking at him was like looking at me, only with less hair. I didn’t want a relationship with the guy, only to know he existed and Aunt Mildred helped me fulfill that desire and she never told my Mom of our visit, she knew it would break her heart.
I remember one time I asked her what a speak easy was, she simply responded, “drugs, fun and funk,” and proceeded to take me across the street to the establishment that my parents always turned their nose up at as we drove by to get to her house. It really was nothing but a juke joint with tattered wooden floors and worn out stools next to the make-shift bar….it did smell pretty bad in there, I’m sure there was drug activity but it was too dark to see and if this was someone’s idea of fun, well, I pity them. The thing is I got to see it. Aunt Mildred was always willing to allow me to see the truth in life, the truth that I never would have learned growing up in suburbia where manicured lawns and dinner parties were standard.
When I heard she’d had a stroke I knew it had to be bad. She was always petite and 6 months in the hospital in recovery whittled her away to nothing. But unlike the other stroke victims I had known in my family, she can’t speak, all she can muster these days are mere grunts. I would imagine her lifestyle didn’t lend to having the best options in healthcare.
She exists now a shell of the fun and hip Aunt that I grew to love. That sly grin that was her trademark is the only thing the stroke didn’t take from her. Oh, and her appetite. I wonder did she ever imagine that this is how she would live out her later years? Does she have any regrets? What would she say to me if she could regain her speech, what advice would she give?
The one thing that befuddles me and probably will until the day I die is that my Mother is her caretaker. The sister who revealed her deepest, darkest secret and shattered her world when she thought a marriage and quick adoption could hide her teenage error. Obviously all is forgiven, right? In life we all experience the changing of the guard, but could either one of them imagine that their roles would morph into caregiver and invalid? One day I will have to ask both of them just that.
Cindy Davis
Ashley's nonfiction
Ashley Sumpter
Non Fiction
Just get Over it!
Isn’t it funny how sometimes you get that feeling? That feeling of this girl is nothing but trouble and I better keep my eyes on her. I had what I thought to be an amazing circle of friends. I had met them when my boyfriend and I started dating. We all hung out at least twice a week if not more. We had thirsty Thursday at Mike’s dorm every Thursday and often hung out on Saturdays for two years. We all had our own personalities we brought to the group. Mike my boyfriend the thoughtful one always trying to please and kept the cool, Magnaughty, the super comedic hippie, Josh our ghetto Asian, Megan joshes girlfriend that annoyed the hell out of us and that none of us could stand, Chelsea the people pleaser, I guess I would be the one who would do anything for you until you crossed me, and the playboy bunny tattooed stupid slut Amber.
We were all wonderful friends who at times had their moments but for the most part got along. The girls would often try to have girl outings. I considered Stupid Bitch Amber and Chelsea to be my best friends. Then I started noticing that I was being left out of things. Thanks to this stupid thing called Facebook I was able to pry into my best friends’ lives and see that I wasn’t invited to go to Kings Dominion, county fairs, shopping, movies, dinners, and many other things. I would always confront them when alcohol was involved, not my best moments nor the best time to bring up something that was upsetting to me. While in the bathroom with dumb whore Amber and Chelsea I got the courage to ask.
“I saw that you guys went to Kings Dominion…when did you go?” I asked
“Umm.. Last Saturday.” Chelsea would say
“Ya, It was like so much fun.” Amber would add
“Great” with sarcasm I would say “How come you guys didn’t call me?”
“It was last minute.” Or “We didn’t think you would want to come.” Or “We thought you were working.” Or “We just didn’t think to call you” were some of their many responses as to why I was not invited to come.
It really sounds so pathetic really, who nags their friends to spend time with them? But I thought these girls were my best friends’ one would think that friends usually would want to spend time together. Well this was not the case with my so called friends.
Then one night while drinking with my “friends” I started noticing that this white trash Amber was flirting with my Mike. I couldn’t believe it and it took every ounce of me not to go up to the both of them and take care of the situation but I like to think of myself as somewhat of a classy girl who would not start a verbal fight with her flirting boyfriend and an all out cat fight with a stupid bitch. So I kept my cool.
“Chelsea, cigarette?” I don’t smoke so she knew that I needed to talk.
We take the elevator down and go outside “to have a cigarette” and I am just fuming.
“Did you see Amber and Mike?” I asked
“Yea, they really seem to be flirting”
“I KNOW! I can’t believe this bull shit! What the fuck I thought she was my friend, friends don’t do that shit to each other. Oh, and don’t think he’s all off the hook. It takes two to tango.”
“Well I probably shouldn’t tell you this but I think Amber likes Mike.”
THAT FUCKING BITCH! I want to scream. I want to explode. I’m not the physical type but I want to slap the bitch. I need everyone to go home but most of all I need to keep my cool. Eventually everyone leaves way too drunk to drive and I try to let it out to my boyfriend without seeming insane.
While climbing into bed I say, “You seemed to be talking to Amber a lot tonight.”
“I was just being friendly.” He says
“Well it seemed like you guys were flirting to me.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“Well it seemed like you were”
“I wasn’t Ashley”
“Well, Chelsea said that she thinks Amber likes you, so can you be a little less ‘friendly’?”
“Sure but I wasn’t flirting with her.”
Growing more agitated I say, “well it sure seemed like it Mike, sometimes it not what you do but how others see it. So why all of a sudden you are being so ‘friendly’ with her.”
“Ashley I love you. She’s not my type not to mention she’s the typical air head, I like a girl with brains” he says as he kisses my forehead.
I really want to believe him but deep down I have this feeling in my stomach. “She’s not my type” keeps running in my head and then I start to think but wait I’m not really his type either. I have brown hair all of his girlfriends before were blonde. I’m a big family person and extraverted all of his other girlfriends came from small families and introverted. He also mentioned how he could never date a girl who was as trashy as she is, also he hates tattoos and she has two too many. So I let it go. Things seem to become consistent; we keep partying, she being “friendly” with him, him not being as “friendly” with her, and me being left out by the girls I considered my best friends.
So somewhere after two and a half years Mike and I break up on decent terms. He chooses not to do the whole “let’s be friends” thing because it would be “too hard to see you with someone else.” We don’t talk for two months, then one night I call him drunk while out with my rugby gals.
“Mike, come pick me up.” I say in my drunkenness.
“Ashley, no”
“Please Mike I miss you.” I say being a good manipulator I know what to say to get him to come get me.
“No you don’t”
“Yes I do” and I ramble, I ‘remind’ him about the good times, I cry and I say some other stuff I will never remember.
Sure enough he comes and gets me.
The next morning comes and it’s awkward. God why did I call him I think. As awkward as it was I was somewhat happy. I always wanted things to work with me and Mike, here could be our second chance I thought and deep down I wanted him to think that too. I get my stuff together we get into the car and he drives me to my car.
“What’s wrong?” I ask seeing his I’m thinking, confused face
“Nothing.”
“Mike you can’t fool me what’s up?”
“I just feel bad”
“bad about what?”
“Well I’m kinda seeing someone and I feel bad.”
Ok, deep breath. what did you expect? You haven’t talked to him in two months, what did you think things would go back the way they were? Do you want things the way they were? God why did I call him? I think to myself.
“Oh…well…umm” God this is so awkward! How much longer til we get to my car, oh thank God we’re almost here.
We pull up to my car. Before I get out I give him a hug say my goodbyes and tell him to call me if he wants. As he pulls off and I get into my car, I cry. Why was I so stupid?
Slowly Mike and I patched things up. November and December we see each other twice; great we’re a booty call. January once a month turns into every two weeks; ok we’re kind of working things out. February and March once a week to twice a week; we’re dating again? April, guess we are working it out we are “facebook official”.
While Mike and I were broken up I really learned who my true friends were, not once did any of our circle of friends try to contact me. It didn’t take long for facebook to inform me as to why.
I can’t help but get angry. So that person Mike was seeing and felt bad about was fucking Amber. I felt like I was in the movie Mean Girls. Amber was my Regina George! I wanted to throw her in front of a bus. Here was this girl I thought was my friend! I felt so betrayed by her and by him. How could they do that to me!
I tried to keep it in. Things we going good and I really didn’t want to fight especially about something that happened while we were broken up but how was I to get past this betrayal? It kept eating at me; I was balloon about to bust. After a night of drinking BOOM! I had exploded.
“You fucked Amber”
“Who told you?”
“No one had to fucking tell me! I’m not an idiot! She was the one you felt bad about! Don’t even fucking lie to me about it! She was my fucking friend!”
“ It happened while we were broken up. It only happened once, I was lonely and she was there.”
“What that’s your excuse ‘she was there’ really that’s your answer! It doesn’t matter that it happened when we we’re broken up! Out of respect for me! I knew it! I knew you Fucking liked her!”
“I didn’t like her”
“No, NO, don’t fucking say that to me you did like her! Damn it Mike you were flirting with her while we were still together! ‘No Ashley I could never be with someone like her, she’s dumb, she so trashy, I can’t stand her tattoos.’ Well I guess you changed your mind! you did liked her all along! You gave me such a hard time when I got my tattoo and mine is well done and meaningful! So how was fucking the girl who would fuck anything with a penis! You like her stupid playboy bunny tattoo near her nasty crab infested…..God Mike I hope you got fucking tested!”
“You fucked other people too!”
“Yes but no one from our circle! No one that you thought was your friend! No one you knew! That a little different Mike!”
This shouldn’t matter this is really so stupid! It happened while we were apart, this should not matter! The issue was not that he was having sex with other people but the fact that it was with someone who I thought was my friend. I felt so betrayed and it took me a long time to get over it and even then I’m not completely over it.
Soon after our fight Chelsea calls me wanting to hang out and like an idiot I say yes. It feels so awkward meeting up with her at Hard Times. We sit at the bar drinking our blue moons and discussing things I’d rather not. Then the shit hit the fan.
“Well Amber never really liked you. She always told me not to invite you. I really wanted all of us to be friends.”
“Oh so you knew Amber didn’t like me? And because she didn’t want me to come you agreed with her and didn’t invite me?” my tone almost as strict as an adult talking to a child.
“Well I wanted you to come; I always asked my how you were doing?”
“Chelsea, is that really supposed to make me feel better? You lied to me for two years. You made me feel unthought-of , or unwanted and always made up excesses as to why I wasn’t invited. Why didn’t you just say ‘Amber doesn’t want you to come’?”
“I wanted us all to be friends.”
“So you lied, how could we be friends? You didn’t care about my feelings so for you two years you put my feeling on the back burner for this nonexistent Utopia. All you had to do was tell me that she doesn’t like you and then I’d know that that’s why and not because it was ‘last minute, or we didn’t think to call you.’ I felt so left out and so rejected for two years. Well that’s great you asked Mike how I was doing but really you couldn’t have called, texted, emailed, facebooked…really Chelsea you couldn’t have done any of that.”
I really don’t know why I still hold this anger towards her mostly. Yes it was upsetting to me that she broke ‘girl code’ by hooking up with my Mike. The fact that we were broken up meant nothing to me. He told me he could never be with someone like her and look what happened the first person he is seeing while we are broken up was that stupid girl he was flirting with before. I need to just get over this; it was over a year ago. Why do I still hold this in, why can’t I just let it go? I think a huge part of me is letting it fester because I had to reevaluate everything when I found out about my ‘best friends’ betrays.
I truly believe that a boyfriend should be a best friend. Mike was my best friend and the first to betray me. He told me he could never be with someone like her he assured me that he was just being ‘friendly’ and that I have nothing to worry about. Well who was the girl he say during the break up? The girl he said he could have never been with. He was flirting with her while we were together and because of that I am now insecure about any girl ‘friend’ he has. I feel as if deep down he has some other motive and deep down if we break up she’ll be the first one he calls. Then I would feel like an idiot thinking this girl was my friend, thinking she was just his friend when all along there were other motives. I learned not to be the naïve girlfriend.
Chelsea lied to me for so long, casting my feelings aside in hopes that we could all be friends. I thought we all were friends, I didn’t understand why I was never invited to things. For two years she lied to me and let me feel left out. When I really needed a friend she was not there. She had always told me that, “If something ever happened [between you and Mike] I would choose you, I’ve known him longer, but you’re more of a friend.” Oh yea well I guess not because when something did happen she wasn’t there. I learned not to be the all trusting friend.
Amber just hurt me because I thought she was my friend. She pretended to be my friend and in the end was when she showed her true self. She broke ‘girl code’ and for that being civil around her is impossible. What hurts me the most with Amber was not the fact that she slept with my Mike but the fact that she lied about being my friend and because Of her I had to reevaluate every friend in my life. I thought this girl was my friend for two years and then to be told “I was never your friend, you don’t know who your real friends are.” Devastated me. I couldn’t trust any of my friends and became unsure with myself and my friends. I learned to reevaluate my life and who my true friends were.
Non Fiction
Just get Over it!
Isn’t it funny how sometimes you get that feeling? That feeling of this girl is nothing but trouble and I better keep my eyes on her. I had what I thought to be an amazing circle of friends. I had met them when my boyfriend and I started dating. We all hung out at least twice a week if not more. We had thirsty Thursday at Mike’s dorm every Thursday and often hung out on Saturdays for two years. We all had our own personalities we brought to the group. Mike my boyfriend the thoughtful one always trying to please and kept the cool, Magnaughty, the super comedic hippie, Josh our ghetto Asian, Megan joshes girlfriend that annoyed the hell out of us and that none of us could stand, Chelsea the people pleaser, I guess I would be the one who would do anything for you until you crossed me, and the playboy bunny tattooed stupid slut Amber.
We were all wonderful friends who at times had their moments but for the most part got along. The girls would often try to have girl outings. I considered Stupid Bitch Amber and Chelsea to be my best friends. Then I started noticing that I was being left out of things. Thanks to this stupid thing called Facebook I was able to pry into my best friends’ lives and see that I wasn’t invited to go to Kings Dominion, county fairs, shopping, movies, dinners, and many other things. I would always confront them when alcohol was involved, not my best moments nor the best time to bring up something that was upsetting to me. While in the bathroom with dumb whore Amber and Chelsea I got the courage to ask.
“I saw that you guys went to Kings Dominion…when did you go?” I asked
“Umm.. Last Saturday.” Chelsea would say
“Ya, It was like so much fun.” Amber would add
“Great” with sarcasm I would say “How come you guys didn’t call me?”
“It was last minute.” Or “We didn’t think you would want to come.” Or “We thought you were working.” Or “We just didn’t think to call you” were some of their many responses as to why I was not invited to come.
It really sounds so pathetic really, who nags their friends to spend time with them? But I thought these girls were my best friends’ one would think that friends usually would want to spend time together. Well this was not the case with my so called friends.
Then one night while drinking with my “friends” I started noticing that this white trash Amber was flirting with my Mike. I couldn’t believe it and it took every ounce of me not to go up to the both of them and take care of the situation but I like to think of myself as somewhat of a classy girl who would not start a verbal fight with her flirting boyfriend and an all out cat fight with a stupid bitch. So I kept my cool.
“Chelsea, cigarette?” I don’t smoke so she knew that I needed to talk.
We take the elevator down and go outside “to have a cigarette” and I am just fuming.
“Did you see Amber and Mike?” I asked
“Yea, they really seem to be flirting”
“I KNOW! I can’t believe this bull shit! What the fuck I thought she was my friend, friends don’t do that shit to each other. Oh, and don’t think he’s all off the hook. It takes two to tango.”
“Well I probably shouldn’t tell you this but I think Amber likes Mike.”
THAT FUCKING BITCH! I want to scream. I want to explode. I’m not the physical type but I want to slap the bitch. I need everyone to go home but most of all I need to keep my cool. Eventually everyone leaves way too drunk to drive and I try to let it out to my boyfriend without seeming insane.
While climbing into bed I say, “You seemed to be talking to Amber a lot tonight.”
“I was just being friendly.” He says
“Well it seemed like you guys were flirting to me.”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“Well it seemed like you were”
“I wasn’t Ashley”
“Well, Chelsea said that she thinks Amber likes you, so can you be a little less ‘friendly’?”
“Sure but I wasn’t flirting with her.”
Growing more agitated I say, “well it sure seemed like it Mike, sometimes it not what you do but how others see it. So why all of a sudden you are being so ‘friendly’ with her.”
“Ashley I love you. She’s not my type not to mention she’s the typical air head, I like a girl with brains” he says as he kisses my forehead.
I really want to believe him but deep down I have this feeling in my stomach. “She’s not my type” keeps running in my head and then I start to think but wait I’m not really his type either. I have brown hair all of his girlfriends before were blonde. I’m a big family person and extraverted all of his other girlfriends came from small families and introverted. He also mentioned how he could never date a girl who was as trashy as she is, also he hates tattoos and she has two too many. So I let it go. Things seem to become consistent; we keep partying, she being “friendly” with him, him not being as “friendly” with her, and me being left out by the girls I considered my best friends.
So somewhere after two and a half years Mike and I break up on decent terms. He chooses not to do the whole “let’s be friends” thing because it would be “too hard to see you with someone else.” We don’t talk for two months, then one night I call him drunk while out with my rugby gals.
“Mike, come pick me up.” I say in my drunkenness.
“Ashley, no”
“Please Mike I miss you.” I say being a good manipulator I know what to say to get him to come get me.
“No you don’t”
“Yes I do” and I ramble, I ‘remind’ him about the good times, I cry and I say some other stuff I will never remember.
Sure enough he comes and gets me.
The next morning comes and it’s awkward. God why did I call him I think. As awkward as it was I was somewhat happy. I always wanted things to work with me and Mike, here could be our second chance I thought and deep down I wanted him to think that too. I get my stuff together we get into the car and he drives me to my car.
“What’s wrong?” I ask seeing his I’m thinking, confused face
“Nothing.”
“Mike you can’t fool me what’s up?”
“I just feel bad”
“bad about what?”
“Well I’m kinda seeing someone and I feel bad.”
Ok, deep breath. what did you expect? You haven’t talked to him in two months, what did you think things would go back the way they were? Do you want things the way they were? God why did I call him? I think to myself.
“Oh…well…umm” God this is so awkward! How much longer til we get to my car, oh thank God we’re almost here.
We pull up to my car. Before I get out I give him a hug say my goodbyes and tell him to call me if he wants. As he pulls off and I get into my car, I cry. Why was I so stupid?
Slowly Mike and I patched things up. November and December we see each other twice; great we’re a booty call. January once a month turns into every two weeks; ok we’re kind of working things out. February and March once a week to twice a week; we’re dating again? April, guess we are working it out we are “facebook official”.
While Mike and I were broken up I really learned who my true friends were, not once did any of our circle of friends try to contact me. It didn’t take long for facebook to inform me as to why.
I can’t help but get angry. So that person Mike was seeing and felt bad about was fucking Amber. I felt like I was in the movie Mean Girls. Amber was my Regina George! I wanted to throw her in front of a bus. Here was this girl I thought was my friend! I felt so betrayed by her and by him. How could they do that to me!
I tried to keep it in. Things we going good and I really didn’t want to fight especially about something that happened while we were broken up but how was I to get past this betrayal? It kept eating at me; I was balloon about to bust. After a night of drinking BOOM! I had exploded.
“You fucked Amber”
“Who told you?”
“No one had to fucking tell me! I’m not an idiot! She was the one you felt bad about! Don’t even fucking lie to me about it! She was my fucking friend!”
“ It happened while we were broken up. It only happened once, I was lonely and she was there.”
“What that’s your excuse ‘she was there’ really that’s your answer! It doesn’t matter that it happened when we we’re broken up! Out of respect for me! I knew it! I knew you Fucking liked her!”
“I didn’t like her”
“No, NO, don’t fucking say that to me you did like her! Damn it Mike you were flirting with her while we were still together! ‘No Ashley I could never be with someone like her, she’s dumb, she so trashy, I can’t stand her tattoos.’ Well I guess you changed your mind! you did liked her all along! You gave me such a hard time when I got my tattoo and mine is well done and meaningful! So how was fucking the girl who would fuck anything with a penis! You like her stupid playboy bunny tattoo near her nasty crab infested…..God Mike I hope you got fucking tested!”
“You fucked other people too!”
“Yes but no one from our circle! No one that you thought was your friend! No one you knew! That a little different Mike!”
This shouldn’t matter this is really so stupid! It happened while we were apart, this should not matter! The issue was not that he was having sex with other people but the fact that it was with someone who I thought was my friend. I felt so betrayed and it took me a long time to get over it and even then I’m not completely over it.
Soon after our fight Chelsea calls me wanting to hang out and like an idiot I say yes. It feels so awkward meeting up with her at Hard Times. We sit at the bar drinking our blue moons and discussing things I’d rather not. Then the shit hit the fan.
“Well Amber never really liked you. She always told me not to invite you. I really wanted all of us to be friends.”
“Oh so you knew Amber didn’t like me? And because she didn’t want me to come you agreed with her and didn’t invite me?” my tone almost as strict as an adult talking to a child.
“Well I wanted you to come; I always asked my how you were doing?”
“Chelsea, is that really supposed to make me feel better? You lied to me for two years. You made me feel unthought-of , or unwanted and always made up excesses as to why I wasn’t invited. Why didn’t you just say ‘Amber doesn’t want you to come’?”
“I wanted us all to be friends.”
“So you lied, how could we be friends? You didn’t care about my feelings so for you two years you put my feeling on the back burner for this nonexistent Utopia. All you had to do was tell me that she doesn’t like you and then I’d know that that’s why and not because it was ‘last minute, or we didn’t think to call you.’ I felt so left out and so rejected for two years. Well that’s great you asked Mike how I was doing but really you couldn’t have called, texted, emailed, facebooked…really Chelsea you couldn’t have done any of that.”
I really don’t know why I still hold this anger towards her mostly. Yes it was upsetting to me that she broke ‘girl code’ by hooking up with my Mike. The fact that we were broken up meant nothing to me. He told me he could never be with someone like her and look what happened the first person he is seeing while we are broken up was that stupid girl he was flirting with before. I need to just get over this; it was over a year ago. Why do I still hold this in, why can’t I just let it go? I think a huge part of me is letting it fester because I had to reevaluate everything when I found out about my ‘best friends’ betrays.
I truly believe that a boyfriend should be a best friend. Mike was my best friend and the first to betray me. He told me he could never be with someone like her he assured me that he was just being ‘friendly’ and that I have nothing to worry about. Well who was the girl he say during the break up? The girl he said he could have never been with. He was flirting with her while we were together and because of that I am now insecure about any girl ‘friend’ he has. I feel as if deep down he has some other motive and deep down if we break up she’ll be the first one he calls. Then I would feel like an idiot thinking this girl was my friend, thinking she was just his friend when all along there were other motives. I learned not to be the naïve girlfriend.
Chelsea lied to me for so long, casting my feelings aside in hopes that we could all be friends. I thought we all were friends, I didn’t understand why I was never invited to things. For two years she lied to me and let me feel left out. When I really needed a friend she was not there. She had always told me that, “If something ever happened [between you and Mike] I would choose you, I’ve known him longer, but you’re more of a friend.” Oh yea well I guess not because when something did happen she wasn’t there. I learned not to be the all trusting friend.
Amber just hurt me because I thought she was my friend. She pretended to be my friend and in the end was when she showed her true self. She broke ‘girl code’ and for that being civil around her is impossible. What hurts me the most with Amber was not the fact that she slept with my Mike but the fact that she lied about being my friend and because Of her I had to reevaluate every friend in my life. I thought this girl was my friend for two years and then to be told “I was never your friend, you don’t know who your real friends are.” Devastated me. I couldn’t trust any of my friends and became unsure with myself and my friends. I learned to reevaluate my life and who my true friends were.
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Back in the days: Personal Essay
Back in the Days
“Stop or I shoot!” that’s what the cop said, if I wasn’t running already, man, I was running then, for real. I knew they can’t just shoot you just like that, but just in case I zig-zaged like I was running around cones or something. But then I got to an edge of the building, so I breaked for a second and saw that it was just a parking lot down below, about 1 or 2 levels down, but I had to jump. So I jumped on one of them cars, landed on the top of a red car like the movies; but then I fell to the ground, then I was running again, not even looking back at the cop. I was gone, out of there, peace out. The homeys all dipped out also. Tyrone made the jump right behind me, and that’s why you see him limping now, you know he is smaller than me maybe he fell wrong, what is he? 12 or something? I’m 15, you are what, 18? Tyrone’s young buck, but he was up there in the mix. So anyways, let me tell you what happened, right as I was about to cross the street I saw more cops, everywhere, coming from both sides of the street, you know how its 2 way? They were coming fast as shit going around cars and everything. Man, I just kept running man, I figured I just cross the street, get away from the building cause they can spot me easy, had my Cypress Hill shirt, bandana on the jeans, you know. Soon as I did that, I had to go into the trees, like a small forest kind of, you know what I’m talking about? right across the street from the stores? I figured I would cut across to the other side and go inside a 7-11 or something. But it was to dark, way way too dark in that mother. So I just got behind a tree and chilled out for a minute. That’s when I saw tall ass Jordan, oh my God that boy can run! He flew around a parked cop car with cops right there! Crossed the street coming my way right, and kept going on the sidewalk. He was headed for more cop cars I thought he was gonna get caught, but he didn’t he told me yesterday he ran all the way home, I don’t believe him though. But that’s it; I didn’t see anyone else- Johnny, Renato, Tareek, Smiley, gone. Stevey and Romeo, gone, they were the first to bounce. And then guess what? Soon as I catch my breath, no more than a minute and I hear dogs! Dogs! They had dogs, I could heard them barking, maybe 2 or 3 dogs right there, on my side of the road. They were maybe about 1 minute walking distance from me. Man, I was thinking for a minute that I was gonna get chewed out by this bastards man, I don’t think I been this scared before no bullshit. But you know what I did? I saw this in a movie right, dogs can’t smell you if you are by the water, and I heard there was a creek somewhere behind me so I walked slowly, slowly till I got to the water… next thing you know, I’m right in there in a ditch, laying down flat on the mud, for real. It was cold as hell, that’s when I thought about my hoddie, I know I dropped it somewhere by the apartments. Man, I waited like almost 2 hours, until I couldn’t hear the dogs no more, the cops were gone but there was one or two left. So I got up slowly, washed the mud out from my arms, my face too with the water, I put my shirt inside out, left the bandana, and I got back into the sidewalk and walked slowly right pass one of them police cars. I didn’t even look at them though, and I walked slowly cause if you start walking fast then they think something is up. I crossed to the 7-11 but just went home after that. Man, that was just this Friday.
And you know how it all happened, because of a stupid party man, check this out, Johnny knows Jesica, you know which Jesica I’m talking about? Right, she’s a senior, she’s Leslie’s friend, that Jesica. So she told him to come to this party where she lives, in the apartments. I was chilling out with Romeo at the playground, Renato, Stevey, Salo, Jose, Nick, they were rolling a J, skinny ass J, I had my Blue Bull so I was straight, you know I don’t smoke that shit then comes Johnny and Jordan to see if we wanna roll up to this party he said it was going to be a bunch for freaks so we said for sure, right. Then we met up with the other fools and started walking. Went to 7-11 real quick to get some brew but no one wanted to hook us up, so we just kept going to the party right. But as soon as we got to the building, these preppy boys started blocking, yes, saying if we knew whose party it was and everything. Right, that’s what I said, what the hell did he care? It was a tall preppie boy doing most the talking, his girl and his other homey just staring. We were all in the elevator ready to go up when he started asking 1000 questions, then the girl told us to leave, but she was being nice and all. Man, you know I’m cool, I was ready to bounce Smiley too but Johnny man, you know Johnny, he tells the boy to push the botton and stop asking questions. But he doesn’t push the stupid button, he says it’s the wrong party… can you believe this guy? Man, that’s when Johnny got closer and clocked the kid right on the chest, pow! Man! That boy fell to the side, the girl started screaming, oh, and the other boy turned pale man… funny as shit, never seen someone more scared in my life. So we leave the elevator right, and we are outside just figuring out if we gonna get a hold of Jesica or what, when we see about 7 boys run out of the building right after us, man. I was like, for real? You know I’m cool and all but guess they wanted beef. So everybody is bussy just talking shit, I had this other preppy boy in front of me in my face, everybody is yelling, I saw Stevey, Stevey was pulling this boy to the floor, then a neighbor comes out from his window, some old guy and says: ‘I’m calling the man’, and guess what Johnny says? Man, you know Johnny is gonna say something. He says; ‘man, you wanna get shoot?’ For real, I know he was just talking shit, but that’s why all those cops came out, cause they though we had a piece or something. No man, I don’t got one- my pops find it, then I’m in real trouble.
“Stop or I shoot!” that’s what the cop said, if I wasn’t running already, man, I was running then, for real. I knew they can’t just shoot you just like that, but just in case I zig-zaged like I was running around cones or something. But then I got to an edge of the building, so I breaked for a second and saw that it was just a parking lot down below, about 1 or 2 levels down, but I had to jump. So I jumped on one of them cars, landed on the top of a red car like the movies; but then I fell to the ground, then I was running again, not even looking back at the cop. I was gone, out of there, peace out. The homeys all dipped out also. Tyrone made the jump right behind me, and that’s why you see him limping now, you know he is smaller than me maybe he fell wrong, what is he? 12 or something? I’m 15, you are what, 18? Tyrone’s young buck, but he was up there in the mix. So anyways, let me tell you what happened, right as I was about to cross the street I saw more cops, everywhere, coming from both sides of the street, you know how its 2 way? They were coming fast as shit going around cars and everything. Man, I just kept running man, I figured I just cross the street, get away from the building cause they can spot me easy, had my Cypress Hill shirt, bandana on the jeans, you know. Soon as I did that, I had to go into the trees, like a small forest kind of, you know what I’m talking about? right across the street from the stores? I figured I would cut across to the other side and go inside a 7-11 or something. But it was to dark, way way too dark in that mother. So I just got behind a tree and chilled out for a minute. That’s when I saw tall ass Jordan, oh my God that boy can run! He flew around a parked cop car with cops right there! Crossed the street coming my way right, and kept going on the sidewalk. He was headed for more cop cars I thought he was gonna get caught, but he didn’t he told me yesterday he ran all the way home, I don’t believe him though. But that’s it; I didn’t see anyone else- Johnny, Renato, Tareek, Smiley, gone. Stevey and Romeo, gone, they were the first to bounce. And then guess what? Soon as I catch my breath, no more than a minute and I hear dogs! Dogs! They had dogs, I could heard them barking, maybe 2 or 3 dogs right there, on my side of the road. They were maybe about 1 minute walking distance from me. Man, I was thinking for a minute that I was gonna get chewed out by this bastards man, I don’t think I been this scared before no bullshit. But you know what I did? I saw this in a movie right, dogs can’t smell you if you are by the water, and I heard there was a creek somewhere behind me so I walked slowly, slowly till I got to the water… next thing you know, I’m right in there in a ditch, laying down flat on the mud, for real. It was cold as hell, that’s when I thought about my hoddie, I know I dropped it somewhere by the apartments. Man, I waited like almost 2 hours, until I couldn’t hear the dogs no more, the cops were gone but there was one or two left. So I got up slowly, washed the mud out from my arms, my face too with the water, I put my shirt inside out, left the bandana, and I got back into the sidewalk and walked slowly right pass one of them police cars. I didn’t even look at them though, and I walked slowly cause if you start walking fast then they think something is up. I crossed to the 7-11 but just went home after that. Man, that was just this Friday.
And you know how it all happened, because of a stupid party man, check this out, Johnny knows Jesica, you know which Jesica I’m talking about? Right, she’s a senior, she’s Leslie’s friend, that Jesica. So she told him to come to this party where she lives, in the apartments. I was chilling out with Romeo at the playground, Renato, Stevey, Salo, Jose, Nick, they were rolling a J, skinny ass J, I had my Blue Bull so I was straight, you know I don’t smoke that shit then comes Johnny and Jordan to see if we wanna roll up to this party he said it was going to be a bunch for freaks so we said for sure, right. Then we met up with the other fools and started walking. Went to 7-11 real quick to get some brew but no one wanted to hook us up, so we just kept going to the party right. But as soon as we got to the building, these preppy boys started blocking, yes, saying if we knew whose party it was and everything. Right, that’s what I said, what the hell did he care? It was a tall preppie boy doing most the talking, his girl and his other homey just staring. We were all in the elevator ready to go up when he started asking 1000 questions, then the girl told us to leave, but she was being nice and all. Man, you know I’m cool, I was ready to bounce Smiley too but Johnny man, you know Johnny, he tells the boy to push the botton and stop asking questions. But he doesn’t push the stupid button, he says it’s the wrong party… can you believe this guy? Man, that’s when Johnny got closer and clocked the kid right on the chest, pow! Man! That boy fell to the side, the girl started screaming, oh, and the other boy turned pale man… funny as shit, never seen someone more scared in my life. So we leave the elevator right, and we are outside just figuring out if we gonna get a hold of Jesica or what, when we see about 7 boys run out of the building right after us, man. I was like, for real? You know I’m cool and all but guess they wanted beef. So everybody is bussy just talking shit, I had this other preppy boy in front of me in my face, everybody is yelling, I saw Stevey, Stevey was pulling this boy to the floor, then a neighbor comes out from his window, some old guy and says: ‘I’m calling the man’, and guess what Johnny says? Man, you know Johnny is gonna say something. He says; ‘man, you wanna get shoot?’ For real, I know he was just talking shit, but that’s why all those cops came out, cause they though we had a piece or something. No man, I don’t got one- my pops find it, then I’m in real trouble.
RANDOM
He had brunet hair with blond streaks.
A different kind of fellow but still very unique.
He arrived late and the teacher asked, "where has he been?"
He replied, "Sitting on the road somewhere in New Orleans"
When he came in class there was an intense scent.
He said, "I he just ate fillet gumbo", I said, "I think you had to have ordered steak!"
I then looked into his eyes and said
"For Heaven's sake!, listen to me because I got you need!"
Craig Fontenot
A different kind of fellow but still very unique.
He arrived late and the teacher asked, "where has he been?"
He replied, "Sitting on the road somewhere in New Orleans"
When he came in class there was an intense scent.
He said, "I he just ate fillet gumbo", I said, "I think you had to have ordered steak!"
I then looked into his eyes and said
"For Heaven's sake!, listen to me because I got you need!"
Craig Fontenot
Judgmental
One flaw with which Samantha has always had a hard times coming to grips is her inability to change her opinions of her peers after only just getting to know them. She thinks that she knows exactly what a person is like after only a few minutes of interacting with them and though she understands that this is a shallow and extremely close-minded way to view and objectify other people, she rarely makes an effort to change her initial views. If she has a negative impression of the person, she will almost always maintain that negative view. She judges books by their covers while pretending to understand their contents. This is a flaw that is not only problematic, but hypocritical because, while she thinks other people are terribly transparent, she believes she is far less translucent.
-Samantha Markey
-Samantha Markey
The Amazon and The Creek
The Amazon and The Creek
Samantha Audet
It was the last day of school. My classmates and I had already stood on the delicate metal risers in the gym watching the proud faces of our parents. We already heard the words of our teachers, of our principal. We had already felt the butterflies in our stomachs. We were, after all, graduating from the 6th grade. It was a big deal, or so they said. My classmates and I would be attending middle school next year. Instead of one large class of approximately 20 students we would be given the responsibility of finding our own classes with the possibility and probability of new faces in each one.
What we knew:
1.New students
2. Lockers
3. Electives
What we didn’t know but would soon discover:
1. Popular kids
2. Boys
3. Acne.
Regardless of what lay in the unknown, that dark cloud of what was to come excited us, and so we soaked up the ceremony of graduation from the 6th grade and from elementary school.
Now rewind. We are back to the topic of the last day of school. As I have already said, my classmates and I had already experienced the thrill of our graduation and were now playing a game of patience. Finally, we had reached the end of the tunnel with the light in sight. The teachers were about as anxious as the students and had left us to our own devices. Some students were lucky enough to have parents who excused them from class. My friends and I were among the unlucky ones. There were about six of us that day. Two of which were my best friends.
Jesse: redhead, tall, cute, cynical.
Anna: brunette, tall, know-it-all.
There were also three others…
Caroline: brunette, teacher’s daughter, hooligan.
Marika: blonde, exchange student from Estonia, natural genius.
Jessie (not to be confused with Jesse): brunette, quiet, also a genius.
So here is our cast. As the character description dictates, it was Caroline who lost at the waiting game, and consequently made losers out of all of us. The teacher had left the room and hadn’t returned for some time, together we all agreed with Caroline to follow her outside to the playground. Well besides Anna, who was afraid of getting in trouble if the teacher returned to find us missing. Her concerns were ignored and she followed with a pout.
The asphalt was wet from the rain that had plagued the Northern Virginia Area for weeks. There were soggy earthworms in puddles, pools of water on the swings, and damp woodchips. It only took about 15 minutes before the splashing in puddles began to bore our young and ADD-like attention span.
Once again, Caroline nominated the idea to explore the woods that lay just behind the tidy little elementary school. Marika, an avid fan of Caroline’s, quickly agreed. The rest of us shortly followed except of course for Anna who at first protested. When the rest of us started walking without her she decided that trouble was a better alternative than being a loner.
A set of old, steep, wood stairs that led down into the woods first greeted us. There was grass and weeds that had seeped their way into the crack of the stairs, and made our legs itch. It was a long trek down those steep wood stairs, especially for legs as short as ours. When we reached the bottom the smell of the woods was almost overwhelming. The rain had made it dank and soggy but it was not enough to take away from its pure beauty.
From the stairs was a gravel path that, not too far, led us to a quaint bridge across the creek. The gravel made a comforting crunch under our feet as we struggled to contain our excitement. We didn’t last long. One by one, me being the first, we ran to the bridge and hung our heads over the side to watch the fast moving water beneath us.
What we did know:
o There was a lot of water.
What we didn’t know:
o There was a flash flood warning and consequently was the reason why there was so much water.
Once again our young explorer/daredevil/ completely insane, ADD, going to live in a crack house, companion Caroline noticed the sandbars littering the creek like tiny islands. Before we could even fathom cause for debate, she dashed down the trampled paths parallel to the bridge and disappeared behind brush and trees. Well, that left little to no alternative options to the rest of us, mostly because when you’re as young as we were you’re always following the fearless leader.
It didn’t take long for the rest of us to catch up to our silently elected tour guide. The scrawny dark haired Amazon had already crossed the sandbar and was wading her feet in the water. She was giggling like a loon. It only took a slight tilt of her head to catch sight of us behind her. Today, I can practically see those tiny gears turning as she thought about how next to portray her fearlessness. In one fluid motion she catapulted herself into the current, completely submerged. She resurfaced, completely drenched, and exploded in laughter.
At this point we had blindly followed this head case into every ridiculous situation she had offered to us. Why stop now? Mere minutes later we were all wading upstream, in a flash flooded creek, with barely our heads above water. The muddied creek was full of pitfalls including deep holes, sharp rocks, and, well, fish. Time escaped us and honestly to this day I don’t know how long we spent swimming in that ridiculously strong current ridden creek. A few of us had received a few war wounds from our “man vs. wild” escapade. It was most likely at this point that we decided to abandon creek and search for a way back to the school.
Climbing out of the creek proved to be as difficult as wading up it. A good 50% of our bodies were covered in mud. The mixture of completely sopping wet clothes and caked mud stains gave us the spitting image of midget mud men. Needless to say, we received a few look backs on our way to the school. No one could ignore the grins sprawled luxuriously across our faces.
Our parent’s were of course completely dumbfounded. If we couldn’t control our excitement before we certainly weren’t going to start now. Our high-pitched 11-year-old voices squawked every detail of our adventure up the creek. This is when what we didn’t know but would soon find out became what we did know. Naturally, we weren’t going to get off without a lecture about wading in creeks during a flash flood warning. And we most certainly didn’t.
Samantha Audet
It was the last day of school. My classmates and I had already stood on the delicate metal risers in the gym watching the proud faces of our parents. We already heard the words of our teachers, of our principal. We had already felt the butterflies in our stomachs. We were, after all, graduating from the 6th grade. It was a big deal, or so they said. My classmates and I would be attending middle school next year. Instead of one large class of approximately 20 students we would be given the responsibility of finding our own classes with the possibility and probability of new faces in each one.
What we knew:
1.New students
2. Lockers
3. Electives
What we didn’t know but would soon discover:
1. Popular kids
2. Boys
3. Acne.
Regardless of what lay in the unknown, that dark cloud of what was to come excited us, and so we soaked up the ceremony of graduation from the 6th grade and from elementary school.
Now rewind. We are back to the topic of the last day of school. As I have already said, my classmates and I had already experienced the thrill of our graduation and were now playing a game of patience. Finally, we had reached the end of the tunnel with the light in sight. The teachers were about as anxious as the students and had left us to our own devices. Some students were lucky enough to have parents who excused them from class. My friends and I were among the unlucky ones. There were about six of us that day. Two of which were my best friends.
Jesse: redhead, tall, cute, cynical.
Anna: brunette, tall, know-it-all.
There were also three others…
Caroline: brunette, teacher’s daughter, hooligan.
Marika: blonde, exchange student from Estonia, natural genius.
Jessie (not to be confused with Jesse): brunette, quiet, also a genius.
So here is our cast. As the character description dictates, it was Caroline who lost at the waiting game, and consequently made losers out of all of us. The teacher had left the room and hadn’t returned for some time, together we all agreed with Caroline to follow her outside to the playground. Well besides Anna, who was afraid of getting in trouble if the teacher returned to find us missing. Her concerns were ignored and she followed with a pout.
The asphalt was wet from the rain that had plagued the Northern Virginia Area for weeks. There were soggy earthworms in puddles, pools of water on the swings, and damp woodchips. It only took about 15 minutes before the splashing in puddles began to bore our young and ADD-like attention span.
Once again, Caroline nominated the idea to explore the woods that lay just behind the tidy little elementary school. Marika, an avid fan of Caroline’s, quickly agreed. The rest of us shortly followed except of course for Anna who at first protested. When the rest of us started walking without her she decided that trouble was a better alternative than being a loner.
A set of old, steep, wood stairs that led down into the woods first greeted us. There was grass and weeds that had seeped their way into the crack of the stairs, and made our legs itch. It was a long trek down those steep wood stairs, especially for legs as short as ours. When we reached the bottom the smell of the woods was almost overwhelming. The rain had made it dank and soggy but it was not enough to take away from its pure beauty.
From the stairs was a gravel path that, not too far, led us to a quaint bridge across the creek. The gravel made a comforting crunch under our feet as we struggled to contain our excitement. We didn’t last long. One by one, me being the first, we ran to the bridge and hung our heads over the side to watch the fast moving water beneath us.
What we did know:
o There was a lot of water.
What we didn’t know:
o There was a flash flood warning and consequently was the reason why there was so much water.
Once again our young explorer/daredevil/ completely insane, ADD, going to live in a crack house, companion Caroline noticed the sandbars littering the creek like tiny islands. Before we could even fathom cause for debate, she dashed down the trampled paths parallel to the bridge and disappeared behind brush and trees. Well, that left little to no alternative options to the rest of us, mostly because when you’re as young as we were you’re always following the fearless leader.
It didn’t take long for the rest of us to catch up to our silently elected tour guide. The scrawny dark haired Amazon had already crossed the sandbar and was wading her feet in the water. She was giggling like a loon. It only took a slight tilt of her head to catch sight of us behind her. Today, I can practically see those tiny gears turning as she thought about how next to portray her fearlessness. In one fluid motion she catapulted herself into the current, completely submerged. She resurfaced, completely drenched, and exploded in laughter.
At this point we had blindly followed this head case into every ridiculous situation she had offered to us. Why stop now? Mere minutes later we were all wading upstream, in a flash flooded creek, with barely our heads above water. The muddied creek was full of pitfalls including deep holes, sharp rocks, and, well, fish. Time escaped us and honestly to this day I don’t know how long we spent swimming in that ridiculously strong current ridden creek. A few of us had received a few war wounds from our “man vs. wild” escapade. It was most likely at this point that we decided to abandon creek and search for a way back to the school.
Climbing out of the creek proved to be as difficult as wading up it. A good 50% of our bodies were covered in mud. The mixture of completely sopping wet clothes and caked mud stains gave us the spitting image of midget mud men. Needless to say, we received a few look backs on our way to the school. No one could ignore the grins sprawled luxuriously across our faces.
Our parent’s were of course completely dumbfounded. If we couldn’t control our excitement before we certainly weren’t going to start now. Our high-pitched 11-year-old voices squawked every detail of our adventure up the creek. This is when what we didn’t know but would soon find out became what we did know. Naturally, we weren’t going to get off without a lecture about wading in creeks during a flash flood warning. And we most certainly didn’t.
He forgets literally... everything
You can constantly see him pausing and thinking that he has forgotten something. It is evident by the confused look on his face. He doesn't remember birthdays or important events. He doesn't remember when he needs to get his car inspected, or when he needs to renew his drivers license. He forgets when papers are due. He has his friends trained to introduce themselves to people who approach familiarly so that he will be reminded of the persons name. He forgets important facts but always remembers the unimportant details.
D. Ryan
D. Ryan
Flaw
Tapping his fingers on his laptop as his expression grew more and more distressed, he wondered what in the hell he was going to write about. As he thought, his mind simply remained blank, alt-tabbing out of his Word window and instead opting to browse for the latest funny cat videos on youtube, still in thought about what to write about. He opened up his usual forum and news windows while continuing to "brainstorm." None of it: not the North Korea-South Korea tensions, the cat-going-down-slide videos, or the judgmental hipsters arguing online about which Smashing Pumpkins album is the best registered in his mind, overwhelmed by all of the information rushing into his head. This lack of needed concentration greatly appealed to him. That is, before he realized that he had 5 more hours before class to turn this damn 5 page history essay in.
Character Assassination.
What is the specific flaw that most works against Dennis, the fatal flaw of his character? Simply put, it is his tendency to fall in love with his own ideas, his own perceptions, to unquestioningly adore the nature of his thoughts; he borders on belief. Not that this makes him much different from anyone else, which is possibly the worst part of it, for him at least, because this tendency leaves him feeling alienated. Is it any wonder so many walk around with headphones on these days?
High School Puts Me in a Bad Place
When Caroline was in high school, she took a Creative Writing class her senior year. She was annoyed with almost everyone for their Peter Pan complexes. She knew she could write, and she hated receiving critiques from these people. She thought they couldn't understand anything larger than what was blatantly on the page, because for the most part, it was true. She hated their pretentious attitudes, but was it really them who were pretentious? Or were they hostile towards her writing? Or perhaps they were too scared to realize that writing is sharing a part of themselves, and that the constructive criticism given to them was seen as a personal attack?
There were three other people who felt the same way about that class; it wasn't their lack of talent that couldn't help their writing, but they had a lack of purpose. Caroline doesn't like it when writing doesn't have anything under the surface. Writing isn't meant to be shallow, but that's what everything seemed to be. Their writing was the epitome of high school - all about impressions and nothing about reflection. And that's why she hated high school; everything was based on the best facade. She's a cynic. And she had no faith in most people.
There were three other people who felt the same way about that class; it wasn't their lack of talent that couldn't help their writing, but they had a lack of purpose. Caroline doesn't like it when writing doesn't have anything under the surface. Writing isn't meant to be shallow, but that's what everything seemed to be. Their writing was the epitome of high school - all about impressions and nothing about reflection. And that's why she hated high school; everything was based on the best facade. She's a cynic. And she had no faith in most people.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Trash Mart
She’s so particular about things it’s disgusting. For instance, you really don’t need clean floors and ambiance to enhance the shopping experience, but she does! If the store is not properly laid out and inviting she will not enter. She non-affectionately refers to Wal Mart as “Trash Mart.” Don’t’ call her pretentious though because she thinks she’s the most down to earth person ever. She gives to strangers and helps her family tremendously, often forgetting her own needs but still it’s that shopping experience thing that has her bound to primarily patronize the classy types of stores. The ones you find at the Tysons Galleria and not Seven Corners. The ones where the store clerks always greet you with a smile and the floors are sparkling and the smell of “clean” permeates the building. Anything less and it doesn’t meet her standards, her, Ms. Queenie.
Cindy Davis
Cindy Davis
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Perfectionism is Never a Flaw!
If Nitesh Arora had to have been blessed with a fatal flaw which of the many could it be? Well, a type-A personality, an overzealous drive, and annoying persistence could all be drawn from the basket, but perfectionism is at the core of each of his flaws. Nitesh strives to achieve his goals—you can only be perfect if you’ve done everything you’ve set out to, right? He can’t settle for anything less. Settling for a les than optimal amount of sleep is certainly one of those tiny sacrifices someone whom shall one day have a top the New York Times bestsellers list, right? He would walk on Hollywood’s red carpet when going to the premiere of the movie based on his first chart-topping novel. That, would be a reward.
However, all of the ambition that he has, this perfectionist drive, stops him from achieving the goals he sets for himself. The joy of obtaining a real position writing and the regret months later…is that really perfection. It’s not that he just can’t say no, but more of an issue of he doesn’t want to say no. Why would he reject something that would advance his career? Or further his passion? Or spread his culture? Or help the family business? Nitesh’s drive causes him to accept each of these responsibilities, the obligation and promise are too enticing to let go to waste. And, when it comes down to it, he fulfills these responsibilities. Of course, like a true perfectionist the end result is glowing. He throws each of these plates of responsibility in the air, spinning and spinning and catching and throwing on and on, delirium setting in but the plates staying in the air.
Nitesh wants it all. And, if he’s going to do any of it he’s going to go all in, there’s no use making a commitment if the results aren’t amazing, that’s not the Nitesh Arora touch.
~Nitesh Arora
However, all of the ambition that he has, this perfectionist drive, stops him from achieving the goals he sets for himself. The joy of obtaining a real position writing and the regret months later…is that really perfection. It’s not that he just can’t say no, but more of an issue of he doesn’t want to say no. Why would he reject something that would advance his career? Or further his passion? Or spread his culture? Or help the family business? Nitesh’s drive causes him to accept each of these responsibilities, the obligation and promise are too enticing to let go to waste. And, when it comes down to it, he fulfills these responsibilities. Of course, like a true perfectionist the end result is glowing. He throws each of these plates of responsibility in the air, spinning and spinning and catching and throwing on and on, delirium setting in but the plates staying in the air.
Nitesh wants it all. And, if he’s going to do any of it he’s going to go all in, there’s no use making a commitment if the results aren’t amazing, that’s not the Nitesh Arora touch.
~Nitesh Arora
Writing Flaw
The character Jaaziah seems unreal. His constant work ethic that is very strenuous seems impossible to be done by any human being. He appears to almost have no fun by is always working out or training for a competition, either with a team or as an individual on his own. Jaaziah overly dedication must force him to have no social life or interaction amongst his peers. Jaaziah cannot have the time to hangout or chill with his friends to play video games or watch television because his life appears to be extremly busy. If he gets up early to workout and then has classes plus a team practice, homework and studying incorporated into his daily schedule he can't have to time to do the typical things guys his age do. From having strenuous workouts so often Jaaziah has to be physically and mentally drained. This will not only affect his time spent with his family, friends, or teammates. But require him to get more rest for his body which takes more time away from him having a social life.
Another of Jaaziah's flaw's is that appears bias. He only talks about sports as if sports are the only thing that happen in the world and every reader can relate to what he is saying. He never mentions real life experiences and how it affects him or others unless it has a direct correlation to his own personal sport. Even when talking about sports he makes other sports seem less important or necessary than his own particular sport. Jaaziah praises himself and his sport and in the process disrespects other sports. He often neglects to reference other sports even exist on most occasions. If he were not so intrigued by his sport and himself maybe he would notice and recognize what is happening in the real world around him. Jaaziah needs to adjust his focus and his knowledge and at least for one day realize the truth that is surrounding him.
Jaaziah Bethea.
Another of Jaaziah's flaw's is that appears bias. He only talks about sports as if sports are the only thing that happen in the world and every reader can relate to what he is saying. He never mentions real life experiences and how it affects him or others unless it has a direct correlation to his own personal sport. Even when talking about sports he makes other sports seem less important or necessary than his own particular sport. Jaaziah praises himself and his sport and in the process disrespects other sports. He often neglects to reference other sports even exist on most occasions. If he were not so intrigued by his sport and himself maybe he would notice and recognize what is happening in the real world around him. Jaaziah needs to adjust his focus and his knowledge and at least for one day realize the truth that is surrounding him.
Jaaziah Bethea.
David's Heel
David knew he was capable of doing anything. He could make anyone happy and adapt to any situation if called upon. It was his one true dream realize his potential and be the best; to be everything anyone could ever be. If he had three wishes, they would be super strength, super speed, and super wisdom: this would ensure he could face any challenge. (Flight would help the falling from an airplane scenario, but he would be strong enough to punch the world away from him when he landed or flap his arms so fast he would hover; also, his super wisdom would probably devise a really cool way to survive the impact.)
David drew heavily upon his ease of conversation and understanding of M.U.C.S., Mutual Understand and Comfortable Silence. People liked to express themselves around David and he in turn shared his own perspectives. It was through this ease that David started to see that many people are completely oblivious to how they act. After this discovery, David grew bitter and felt himself superior. How could so many people be such fools?
It took David four years to finally see how horrible he was acting and that it was through this selfishness and superiority that people become assholes. And not just assholes: lazy people, attention whores, womanizers, know-it-alls, and other undesirable people we have to sit next to in the cab during your friend's birthday because you were too drunk to recognize which one you were getting in and found you were with Sarah's other group of friends that were constantly pissing you off while you tried to dance to that new Pitbull song. Yeah, I know Pitbull its just awful, but a mans gotta mambo when a mans gotta mambo.
David comforts himself with the fact that everyone struggles like he does, and everyone wants to be the best they can be. It's funny: if everyone was the best, then who would be the real best? Just goes to show that the world is just as fucked up as you are.
-David Darner
David drew heavily upon his ease of conversation and understanding of M.U.C.S., Mutual Understand and Comfortable Silence. People liked to express themselves around David and he in turn shared his own perspectives. It was through this ease that David started to see that many people are completely oblivious to how they act. After this discovery, David grew bitter and felt himself superior. How could so many people be such fools?
It took David four years to finally see how horrible he was acting and that it was through this selfishness and superiority that people become assholes. And not just assholes: lazy people, attention whores, womanizers, know-it-alls, and other undesirable people we have to sit next to in the cab during your friend's birthday because you were too drunk to recognize which one you were getting in and found you were with Sarah's other group of friends that were constantly pissing you off while you tried to dance to that new Pitbull song. Yeah, I know Pitbull its just awful, but a mans gotta mambo when a mans gotta mambo.
David comforts himself with the fact that everyone struggles like he does, and everyone wants to be the best they can be. It's funny: if everyone was the best, then who would be the real best? Just goes to show that the world is just as fucked up as you are.
-David Darner
Flaws That Give Headaches
Character flaws. The burden of humanity. As a species we strive for perfection and ultimately miss the mark by several hundred feet. More like miles, actually. There are those who would deny this statement of imperfection. One such individual is, Kim Jong-Il, the supreme leader of North Korea, who believes himself to be superhuman to the point of not defecating. Regardless of such absurdities, I don’t mind announcing my imperfections and inadequacies. I admit that, in my opinion, my worst flaw is probably my self-conscious nature. I constantly need the reassurance from my peers, family members, and friends that my work is adequate if not excellent. A compliment is powerful enough to make a day perfect, criticism strong enough to invoke tears. Because of this I am also striving to do the best work possible, however there is another character flaw that affects this trait of mine. That is procrastination. I hate to say that I am one of many who inhabit this frequent quality of dodging assignments till the night before and cramming projects down to the hour of their due date. Together my self-consciousness and my procrastination make for a stressful combination. My laziness ensures that I have mere hours to complete my work while my self-consciousness berates me to achieve the best possible outcome. Despite theses flaws I find that my work tends to be manageable for me to rest easy when I finally find my pillow at night. If I get rid of the day’s headache, that is.
Samantha Audet
Samantha Audet
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Jaaziah The truth untold here is my paper to be workshopped sorry its late.
Jaaziah Bethea
Creative Writing
Jessica McCaughey
Novemver 28th, 2010
The Story that changed their family.
“He’s kicking her out?”
Those were the words I thought in my head and said to my brother when I heard the news. It was an early morning day in February, and my mother was taking my brother, Caron, and I to Basketball practice. It was my junior year and his freshman, but we both were dedicated ballers and did not like being bothered, right before or during our practices or workouts. However, other people had different opinions. Well on this cold February day is when my mother broke the news to us. To me it was horrifying! I can’t speak on my brother’s behalf, but I figure that the news made him freeze like a deer in headlights, as it did me. The news was that my father was kicking my sister, Sheria, out the house. This angered me! But why’d my mother have to break this terrible news to me at this moment? I was trying to focus on Basketball practice as the season was coming to an end and this part of the season was important in how I finish my junior year.
As we rode over to the high school where our practice was, my mother started to explain to Caron and I the situation that my sister was in. She said that my father was disappointed about how late Sheria came home on a constant basis, after they both had commanded that she arrive home much earlier! She seemed disappointed about the decision that my father had made. But she went on with her story saying multiple times she and my father confronted Sheria about coming in late, and sometimes she heeded to their request, but more times than not she didn’t. This, she said was the reason that my father came to his conclusion. She did say if Sheria was apologetic that my father might let her stay. But she also said that my father was giving Sheria until April 1st, to get her things and find a place to live; before he sent her packing and on her own, if she wasn’t apologetic.
As we got out the car she said “we’ll talk more about this when you get home, and I’m sorry to make you late to practice.” Also she whispered, “Jaaziah since your closer to Sheria in age I think that you should talk to her. Maybe she will think about she’s doing and decide to stay.”
But I wasn’t stupid. I knew exactly what this meant, I am a guy too. It meant that my father’s pride could and would not take the feeling of being disrespected. Yes, he cared about what time Sheria arrived home, but he cared more about the fact that she was not obeying his orders. He felt that by her coming home after the time that he directed her to, his force of direction was not being obeyed. Well us guys we must be obeyed, or else we feel disrespected, and this is exactly how my father felt. Now what I didn’t exactly understand was how my father could get so angry about the situation; when he knew that my sister was coming from work, most days when she came home late.
Well as predicted, by April 1st Sheria had moved out. This was the worse day in my life. Before the first, we saw her taking boxes out of the house with her things in them. Some items she left in her car until she moved in to her other home. While other items I believe she left at her girl friends house momentarily. She moved in with her current boyfriend and his family. But I was mad! I felt the whole situation was unnecessary and with her living with him anything could happen. She could get in a car accident and not feel obligated to tell us. She could be attacked and we would not be able to help her. She could just exile herself from our family as a whole, and that would just be sickening. At least when she was home I saw her everyday and I knew that she was safe. But with her gone, I didn’t know anything! I just knew that she didn’t leave here, at 126 anymore.
Although it sometimes seemed that I didn’t like my sister, because I sometimes joked about her, or at times didn’t even acknowledge when her presence was near. I loved her to death and hated to see her go. Since I did not yet have my driver’s license she was always a valuable source of transportation, and with her gone that might as well have gone out the window. But that was not the real reason behind my disappointment, I love being in the presence of my sister. I could always go to her for advice, just sitting and talking to her late at night, when I was feeling down.
Now that she is gone everything has changed. My father acts different and nobody understands him. But what is worse is that we all had a strong hate towards him for what he did. I mean my sister was only 19 years old, without a college degree, when he sent her out on her own. She did not even have a high paying job and she was paying for cosmetology school, by herself at the time too. All of the children were angered at his decision. I could not even talk to this man anymore, I had to force myself to look in his direction, it was as if my face was molded completely frozen, he was just an enemy in our house. Everything that I needed I turned to my mother for. But the worse of it all was the barrier that he put between him and Sheria. Whenever I saw them around each other I thought someone had died, their presence was as people attending a funeral. Words were never spoken, glances were never made, and feelings were cold.
Creative Writing
Jessica McCaughey
Novemver 28th, 2010
The Story that changed their family.
“He’s kicking her out?”
Those were the words I thought in my head and said to my brother when I heard the news. It was an early morning day in February, and my mother was taking my brother, Caron, and I to Basketball practice. It was my junior year and his freshman, but we both were dedicated ballers and did not like being bothered, right before or during our practices or workouts. However, other people had different opinions. Well on this cold February day is when my mother broke the news to us. To me it was horrifying! I can’t speak on my brother’s behalf, but I figure that the news made him freeze like a deer in headlights, as it did me. The news was that my father was kicking my sister, Sheria, out the house. This angered me! But why’d my mother have to break this terrible news to me at this moment? I was trying to focus on Basketball practice as the season was coming to an end and this part of the season was important in how I finish my junior year.
As we rode over to the high school where our practice was, my mother started to explain to Caron and I the situation that my sister was in. She said that my father was disappointed about how late Sheria came home on a constant basis, after they both had commanded that she arrive home much earlier! She seemed disappointed about the decision that my father had made. But she went on with her story saying multiple times she and my father confronted Sheria about coming in late, and sometimes she heeded to their request, but more times than not she didn’t. This, she said was the reason that my father came to his conclusion. She did say if Sheria was apologetic that my father might let her stay. But she also said that my father was giving Sheria until April 1st, to get her things and find a place to live; before he sent her packing and on her own, if she wasn’t apologetic.
As we got out the car she said “we’ll talk more about this when you get home, and I’m sorry to make you late to practice.” Also she whispered, “Jaaziah since your closer to Sheria in age I think that you should talk to her. Maybe she will think about she’s doing and decide to stay.”
But I wasn’t stupid. I knew exactly what this meant, I am a guy too. It meant that my father’s pride could and would not take the feeling of being disrespected. Yes, he cared about what time Sheria arrived home, but he cared more about the fact that she was not obeying his orders. He felt that by her coming home after the time that he directed her to, his force of direction was not being obeyed. Well us guys we must be obeyed, or else we feel disrespected, and this is exactly how my father felt. Now what I didn’t exactly understand was how my father could get so angry about the situation; when he knew that my sister was coming from work, most days when she came home late.
Well as predicted, by April 1st Sheria had moved out. This was the worse day in my life. Before the first, we saw her taking boxes out of the house with her things in them. Some items she left in her car until she moved in to her other home. While other items I believe she left at her girl friends house momentarily. She moved in with her current boyfriend and his family. But I was mad! I felt the whole situation was unnecessary and with her living with him anything could happen. She could get in a car accident and not feel obligated to tell us. She could be attacked and we would not be able to help her. She could just exile herself from our family as a whole, and that would just be sickening. At least when she was home I saw her everyday and I knew that she was safe. But with her gone, I didn’t know anything! I just knew that she didn’t leave here, at 126 anymore.
Although it sometimes seemed that I didn’t like my sister, because I sometimes joked about her, or at times didn’t even acknowledge when her presence was near. I loved her to death and hated to see her go. Since I did not yet have my driver’s license she was always a valuable source of transportation, and with her gone that might as well have gone out the window. But that was not the real reason behind my disappointment, I love being in the presence of my sister. I could always go to her for advice, just sitting and talking to her late at night, when I was feeling down.
Now that she is gone everything has changed. My father acts different and nobody understands him. But what is worse is that we all had a strong hate towards him for what he did. I mean my sister was only 19 years old, without a college degree, when he sent her out on her own. She did not even have a high paying job and she was paying for cosmetology school, by herself at the time too. All of the children were angered at his decision. I could not even talk to this man anymore, I had to force myself to look in his direction, it was as if my face was molded completely frozen, he was just an enemy in our house. Everything that I needed I turned to my mother for. But the worse of it all was the barrier that he put between him and Sheria. Whenever I saw them around each other I thought someone had died, their presence was as people attending a funeral. Words were never spoken, glances were never made, and feelings were cold.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Alex Borschel
Creative Writing
Creative Non-Fiction
11/18/2010
Several moments later Paul walked amiably down the aisle laden with various soaps and other hair related products in front of the Pharmacy and the Frozen Food section. He stood in the HBC section of the grocery store, located at the back of the building, and part of the department stood apart from the pharmacy; both of which were in the general direction he was then heading in.
"Good morning, Sue," he said as he approached the Pharmacy's front desk. She was short, shorter than Paul at least. Her hair was grey and curled, a number of which were even streaked with a white that matched the pharmaceutical apron she always wore.
"Good morning young man, what trouble are you getting into today?" she asked Paul.
'The usual," he replied, returning her smile.
"I'm kinda worried, honestly, if I don't get more hours or a pay raise, or some other source of money, well..." he trailed off. Sue listened patiently,
"Well you know what worries me? All these kids who smoke pot these days," she said sharply, "I can't stand for it, it's a dirty, nasty habit that'll kill them. I was just reading today in TIME that so many live the dirty habit."
Paul looked down, though felt as if his ears perked at her words, so deep was his desire to stop and converse then. "I was wondering; what do you think of the legalization of Marijuana?" he asked.
"Oh not that again," Sue groaned, "you know how I feel about the matter; No, it shouldn't be. Period."
Paul paused. He carefully mulled the words over in his head before he asked them aloud.
"Would you say, then, that people who use marijuana are drug users?" he asked slowly. Sue snorted at what he said,
"More like drug abusers," she retorted. Paul blinked, and with the tip of his index finger tapped his chin thoughtfully.
"What if there was a drug, one that was natural occurring and non-cancer causing, and used as a herbal remedy and medicinally for thousands of years. It is normally heated when used, and stimulates people; much artwerk and literature is written while on it. It has global widespread usage, and comes from a green-leafed plant, but is used most widely because of it's effects on people?"
"Marijuana?" Sue asked, sounding bored. Paul blinked again, as if surprised,
"Actually," he said, "I was thinking of coffee."
They were both quiet for a moment. Sue considered what Paul had said, and Paul carefully waited for further reaction.
"If I had specified what I was thinking of, would you still think I was refer
.ring to Marijuana?" he asked quietly.
Sue frowned. "Yes," she growled and leaned against the counter, as if impatient. Though there were two customer's orders to attend to for hours later; she had little better to do than talk with Paul, at least at that part of the day, and they both knew it. Paul shamelessly exploited this knowledge whenever he could, and
not concerning her either.
"-And marijuana being illegal," he continued, "you attribute those qualities I listed to being of the substance... then thusly, are not those qualities then of an illegal substance?" he paused, "Qualities and characters are what define something, no? They are what define tetrahydrocanniboid, or THC from, say, caffeine, no?"
And Sue nodded, she could not disagree with something so obvious and plainly put. Her annoyance grew, as Paul knew it would.
"Yes, they are," she concurred.
"So then if qualities are what define something, then logically, as even illegal or wrong things are still things, then the qualities of illegal things are what make them intrinsically wrong in adherence to our given laws or moralities. But most importantly, I think it is the qualities, the characteristics of illegal things that is what makes them illegal," and as his words lingered, a part of him wondered if he was irritating her. He continued nevertheless, as much to get his point across as to annoy her further. He didn't mind annoying people so long as he got the truth across. Anger faded, but the truth... well it was there forever; stark, real, and
"For example, our land doesn't ban substances wholesale, but rather by chemicals, or something in that substance that composes it. So you see, it is not Marijuana which is banned, it's the THC. There is literally tons of legal marijuana you can legally buy because the THC is absent. Hell, shoe stores sell hemp shoes. What did you think hemp was? It's fiber from male Marijuana plants. The THC, what is illegal, a quality, is only found in female which likewise is illegal, and anything with that quality is thereby illegal also. You change a chemical, one quality, and something illegal becomes legal, and likewise, legal becomes illegal. Right and wrong, like a light switch, being flipped on and off."
"So what?" Sue asked, sounding annoyed. Paul nodded, acceeding in how important the question actually was.
"So, it seems rather obvious to me," he replied, "that coffee and marijuana share similar qualities. Enough so that when I vaguely described it you associated it with marijuana. I feel it would be inappropriate to ask, but why is it coffee is legal, but weed is not?"
Sue shook her head derisively and snorted,
"If you're trying to say coffee and weed are the same thing, well, you're very wrong."
Paul smiled again,
"No I am not saying that. But come now, weed is only more noticeable because it's smoked. In fact, I once asked a man at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, a person who claimed he had smoked everything under the sun, if he had ever smoked caffeine."
Sue gave him a blank look, in fact there was a little surprise.
"Like... out of a cup?"
"No actually," Paul replied, "I had a similar reaction. I think most people do. He told me it was industrial caffeine, the stuff they add to the military coffee or something like that. Basically it came in powder form."
"And?" she asked, though Paul could tell she was keen to hear.
"Well, if you'll pardon my language, as he put it, 'it fucked him up real good' for roughly forty-five minutes, and made him feel as hyper as having done coke. But, regardless, I'm willing to bet if you put the same amount of weed as one does coffee in a cup of water, the affect would be the same. Marijuana is done normally all at once, whereas coffee is dolled out over time. But to be honest, I've seen people more lit by caffeine than marijuana, and the crash from experience I know, is much worse with the former than the later. The difference between their legality... is one is socially acceptable while the other is not."
"Your point?" Sue repeated. Paul noticed that every few seconds she had begun to look past him, as if there was a line behind him that he was holding up, though there wasn't, and no customer came chivalrously to her rescue. Despite how much she was making it clear he was inconveniencing her, Paul continued.
"Well, recently I werked briefly at a public school a few months ago."
"Oh no," she jested, and raised both hands to cover her mouth in mock horror. Paul laughed with her at himself, unable to deny that it was funny, even if derisive. He cared not. To Paul it was better to be laughed at than with, and surely any of the major merry-andrews would agree.
"It wasn't so bad," he remarked lamely with a jeer smile, "I werked two days a week, for six weeks, and successfully completed my menial job. However, while werking there, I noticed that every teacher, every single one, without exception, drank coffee."
Paul paused,
"Then, if it stands that people who use marijuana are drug abusers, than aren't coffee users drug abusers too?"
"Only if they drink in excess-" Sue replied, but Paul cut her off,
"Which only then is excused because it is socially acceptable." he repeated. "And what is excess?" Paul asked. "If somebody is caught with marijuana once, they go to the same drug programs as those who are suffering from an addiction. If I smoked weed five or six times a week, I'd be considered an abuser, even an addict. Most Americans have coffee once or twice a day, and some more than that!" he exclaimed.
Sue frowned coldly,
"I am not a drug abuser,"
"And I'm not saying you are either, or that if you are it's even necessarily a bad thing, you are." Paul quickly pointed out, "I don't think people who smoke weed are drug abusers anymore than those who drink coffee are. It isn't right or wrong, that's just opinion. But I'm just stating what is and the questions concerning that." Paul breathed in and then out, and with it came the words, "I don't know how much of the substance you use, only you do. If anyone has been thinking that of you..." he trailed off, the implication was clear enough without need of him stating it. Sue's frown only grew with it.
"But more to the point," he continued, "I'm not comfortable that the majority of our nation's educators are drug abusers."
"Coffee is legal," Sue protested.
"Yes? And why isn't marijuana? You use a drug, in the eyes of the law, you might as well abuse it. But why, if weed is equivocable, if less harmful, how is it not legal too?"
"I don't know," she admitted. Paul gave her a small, sympathetic smile.
"I don't know either," he replied, and began to back off, "it doesn't make sense to me. And when we don't know why something is illegal, or wrong, why should we continue to treat it as such? When we can't definitively, undisputably say why something should be illegal, maybe we shouldn't have it be illegal. Maybe we should wait and see, and make sure there is a reason, instead of there being none at all." He shrugged, "after all, if weed was wrong because it was deadly, than cigarettes would be, too. They kill far more than Marijuana."
Again Paul shook his head.
"Tell me Sue, what is the difference between something and nothing?" he asked, the seemingly unrelated question taking her by surprise. She shook head, unsure how or even what to say, thinking that even if she did, it would not be the response he was looking for.
"Everything," he replied, giving the answer for her when it became obvious she expected it from him. "It is infinite. Marijuana, in all its years of use has never killed a single person. Tobacco; millions, hundreds of millions, potentially billions. But even if tobacco had killed just one person, just one, weed, herb, would be infinitely less, as weed has never killed anybody. The difference is everything, and marijuana is infinitely less fatal because of it, and yet at the same is still infinitely more illegal than the poison. It's less harmful than even coffee, which can easily destroy the heart. Paul shook his head again,
"I mean, when I'm at the register, on a daily basis I sell products; tobacco and alcohol, that enable addiction and ruin and even kill lives. Me, with totally legal products, allow others, just by selling it, to destroy lives as thoroughly as any illegal drug dealer-"
"But that's different!" Sue protested. Paul shrugged.
"There used to be an old couple here who I was real friendly with. You know how it is, the familiar customers you get to know. They knew my name, even, without a nametag." and he blinked, "But I don't think I ever caught theirs. I'm much less of a name person than a face person. I guess because names are just words, and words just describe us, but are faces are us, but I digress. I don't like talking about it, because it does my soul no good, but the older gentleman, a very kindly fellow everytime he came through my line, bought a carton of cigarettes every purchase, once a week. They did this on the same day of the week, today in fact, for I suppose forever. They were quite old. One day, about a year ago, though, they just stopped coming. I didn't think much of it for a few weeks until I noticed their abscence. But I didn't think much of it; perhaps they went elsewhere. However, just earlier the lady came to the store, but her husband was not there. I asked her where he was, joking with her that I had not seen the two of them together. She sadly told me that he had passed away from lung cancer."
His words, heavy hung in the air.
"Every pack I sold to him contributed, and though I may never know how much of a hand I had in his death, the fact is, I did. Just as the heroine dealer who sold the addicts last dose before they OD is held responsible, am not I?." he asked at the counter and raised his eyebrows, "How many people have I sold the bottle of wine or case of beer that set them on that road to addiction, or alcoholic rage and abuse? How many packs of cigarettes have I sold, that were the pack that assured that person's cancer and inevitable death? I just wanted to point out, that Marijuana was once sold in pharmacies like the one you werk," he said and patted the counter, "as was Opium and even Heroine, of which the later was even prescribed by doctors. Not many know the blitzkrieg that allowed Nazi Germany's early military successes, was enabled by speed that was rationed out to German soldiers by their superiors. Sigmund Freud, the father of modern psychology both used and advocated the usage of coke as a remedy for any number of ailments, disorders, and insanities. You have a gram of it today, you get twenty-five years. Ecstasy began its use in the office of a therapist helping struggling couples with their marriages. If people hadn't begun overusing it at parties it might even still be used today. And from all that we know that it is not the harm the drug may cause that makes it illegal, but if it is socially acceptable. In the years to come much of what is sold here will be replaced and subsequently made illegal. The drug users of today are tomorrow's abuser. For I certainly consider people who used those drugs that were legal in the past, such as opium or heroine, as drug abusers today."
"But it's different," Sue repeated and protested, "we found those drugs to be harmful, and that there are better ones to be used-"
"Only by matters of time," Paul replied. "Come now, in time the same will occur with all the things we sell here... Your stock will be replaced, and those who cling to what has gone out of fashion will be labeled as deviants, and after enough time, even drug abusers. Look at Aspirin, something incredibly detrimental to the body to the point of being deadly; surely somebody somewhere will create a drug that is more efficient and practical than it, replacing the drug." He shook his head, "The people who used the drugs in the pharmacy today are the next century's drug abusers. Enjoy it while you can. It's just the way of things; you're just next century's illegal drug dealer," His words lingered in the air, and despite her resolute dark frown, he smiled,
"Tobacco, is a good example. It's banned virtually everywhere, and once it becomes socially unacceptable it'll be outlawed. It already has been from everywhere indoors. I was at an amusement park last summer, and the areas where smokers are allowed to smoke are little better than closed off cages." he winked,
"What do you think?" he asked, "still bored?"
"I have to go back to werk," she said sharply, giving him a last, annoyed look, and then turned. She stalked behind the counter, and appeared to be genuinely werking, at least to Paul, shelving and arranging boxes of pills.
In turn, he returned to his own job, whistling an upbeat tune as he absentmindedly returned to spraying, washing, and dusting; skillfully cleaning the wisp-like grey matter away. Paul was certain that if the customers knew just what the dust was, and how much literally covered the store, he was certain they would never shop at Big People and the veritable graveyard that it is.
Every now and then Sue would glance up, over at Paul and then back at her werk. Paul noticed; when it came to people, he always did.
The area, a moment later was clear of everybody but just the two of them.
"You know what I do, to escape the fact I'm a drug dealer?" he asked. Sue looked from over the counter,
"Dare I ask?" she said sarcastically. However, there was a touch of something else, something that begged for more, a release from the truth Paul had shared with her. But it was but one of facet of the bigger truth, for if truth were a diamond, it would be a many sided one, and each side a part of the diamond as a whole. Each side adding beauty, reality, and truth.
"I clean," he answered, "I took the only job they had available at the time, and though I've been trying to escape it ever since, in that aspect, I don't regret my decision. At least I don't help people with their suicide anymore," and he cast a backward glance at the register, "or at least I don't nearly as much as I used to."
Sue paused to listen, and then shook her head.
"That's silly," she said, "I can't just transfer to another job because I disagree with this one. I have a house to pay, kids-" Paul shrugged,
"Take it as you will, or don't. It doesn't affect me either way; only you, and what you think is right and wrong. I'm not telling you what to do, but I am telling you what I did."
He shrugged again, as if dubious to her judgement, and then walked away, returning to his idle sweeping and contentedness.
Though he did not know it, Sue for many minutes stood there, contemplating what he had said. She left early that day, and as she did, folded her apron, and finding herself retiring much earlier than she had expected she would.
-Alexander Borschel
Creative Writing
Creative Non-Fiction
11/18/2010
Several moments later Paul walked amiably down the aisle laden with various soaps and other hair related products in front of the Pharmacy and the Frozen Food section. He stood in the HBC section of the grocery store, located at the back of the building, and part of the department stood apart from the pharmacy; both of which were in the general direction he was then heading in.
"Good morning, Sue," he said as he approached the Pharmacy's front desk. She was short, shorter than Paul at least. Her hair was grey and curled, a number of which were even streaked with a white that matched the pharmaceutical apron she always wore.
"Good morning young man, what trouble are you getting into today?" she asked Paul.
'The usual," he replied, returning her smile.
"I'm kinda worried, honestly, if I don't get more hours or a pay raise, or some other source of money, well..." he trailed off. Sue listened patiently,
"Well you know what worries me? All these kids who smoke pot these days," she said sharply, "I can't stand for it, it's a dirty, nasty habit that'll kill them. I was just reading today in TIME that so many live the dirty habit."
Paul looked down, though felt as if his ears perked at her words, so deep was his desire to stop and converse then. "I was wondering; what do you think of the legalization of Marijuana?" he asked.
"Oh not that again," Sue groaned, "you know how I feel about the matter; No, it shouldn't be. Period."
Paul paused. He carefully mulled the words over in his head before he asked them aloud.
"Would you say, then, that people who use marijuana are drug users?" he asked slowly. Sue snorted at what he said,
"More like drug abusers," she retorted. Paul blinked, and with the tip of his index finger tapped his chin thoughtfully.
"What if there was a drug, one that was natural occurring and non-cancer causing, and used as a herbal remedy and medicinally for thousands of years. It is normally heated when used, and stimulates people; much artwerk and literature is written while on it. It has global widespread usage, and comes from a green-leafed plant, but is used most widely because of it's effects on people?"
"Marijuana?" Sue asked, sounding bored. Paul blinked again, as if surprised,
"Actually," he said, "I was thinking of coffee."
They were both quiet for a moment. Sue considered what Paul had said, and Paul carefully waited for further reaction.
"If I had specified what I was thinking of, would you still think I was refer
.ring to Marijuana?" he asked quietly.
Sue frowned. "Yes," she growled and leaned against the counter, as if impatient. Though there were two customer's orders to attend to for hours later; she had little better to do than talk with Paul, at least at that part of the day, and they both knew it. Paul shamelessly exploited this knowledge whenever he could, and
not concerning her either.
"-And marijuana being illegal," he continued, "you attribute those qualities I listed to being of the substance... then thusly, are not those qualities then of an illegal substance?" he paused, "Qualities and characters are what define something, no? They are what define tetrahydrocanniboid, or THC from, say, caffeine, no?"
And Sue nodded, she could not disagree with something so obvious and plainly put. Her annoyance grew, as Paul knew it would.
"Yes, they are," she concurred.
"So then if qualities are what define something, then logically, as even illegal or wrong things are still things, then the qualities of illegal things are what make them intrinsically wrong in adherence to our given laws or moralities. But most importantly, I think it is the qualities, the characteristics of illegal things that is what makes them illegal," and as his words lingered, a part of him wondered if he was irritating her. He continued nevertheless, as much to get his point across as to annoy her further. He didn't mind annoying people so long as he got the truth across. Anger faded, but the truth... well it was there forever; stark, real, and
"For example, our land doesn't ban substances wholesale, but rather by chemicals, or something in that substance that composes it. So you see, it is not Marijuana which is banned, it's the THC. There is literally tons of legal marijuana you can legally buy because the THC is absent. Hell, shoe stores sell hemp shoes. What did you think hemp was? It's fiber from male Marijuana plants. The THC, what is illegal, a quality, is only found in female which likewise is illegal, and anything with that quality is thereby illegal also. You change a chemical, one quality, and something illegal becomes legal, and likewise, legal becomes illegal. Right and wrong, like a light switch, being flipped on and off."
"So what?" Sue asked, sounding annoyed. Paul nodded, acceeding in how important the question actually was.
"So, it seems rather obvious to me," he replied, "that coffee and marijuana share similar qualities. Enough so that when I vaguely described it you associated it with marijuana. I feel it would be inappropriate to ask, but why is it coffee is legal, but weed is not?"
Sue shook her head derisively and snorted,
"If you're trying to say coffee and weed are the same thing, well, you're very wrong."
Paul smiled again,
"No I am not saying that. But come now, weed is only more noticeable because it's smoked. In fact, I once asked a man at a Narcotics Anonymous meeting, a person who claimed he had smoked everything under the sun, if he had ever smoked caffeine."
Sue gave him a blank look, in fact there was a little surprise.
"Like... out of a cup?"
"No actually," Paul replied, "I had a similar reaction. I think most people do. He told me it was industrial caffeine, the stuff they add to the military coffee or something like that. Basically it came in powder form."
"And?" she asked, though Paul could tell she was keen to hear.
"Well, if you'll pardon my language, as he put it, 'it fucked him up real good' for roughly forty-five minutes, and made him feel as hyper as having done coke. But, regardless, I'm willing to bet if you put the same amount of weed as one does coffee in a cup of water, the affect would be the same. Marijuana is done normally all at once, whereas coffee is dolled out over time. But to be honest, I've seen people more lit by caffeine than marijuana, and the crash from experience I know, is much worse with the former than the later. The difference between their legality... is one is socially acceptable while the other is not."
"Your point?" Sue repeated. Paul noticed that every few seconds she had begun to look past him, as if there was a line behind him that he was holding up, though there wasn't, and no customer came chivalrously to her rescue. Despite how much she was making it clear he was inconveniencing her, Paul continued.
"Well, recently I werked briefly at a public school a few months ago."
"Oh no," she jested, and raised both hands to cover her mouth in mock horror. Paul laughed with her at himself, unable to deny that it was funny, even if derisive. He cared not. To Paul it was better to be laughed at than with, and surely any of the major merry-andrews would agree.
"It wasn't so bad," he remarked lamely with a jeer smile, "I werked two days a week, for six weeks, and successfully completed my menial job. However, while werking there, I noticed that every teacher, every single one, without exception, drank coffee."
Paul paused,
"Then, if it stands that people who use marijuana are drug abusers, than aren't coffee users drug abusers too?"
"Only if they drink in excess-" Sue replied, but Paul cut her off,
"Which only then is excused because it is socially acceptable." he repeated. "And what is excess?" Paul asked. "If somebody is caught with marijuana once, they go to the same drug programs as those who are suffering from an addiction. If I smoked weed five or six times a week, I'd be considered an abuser, even an addict. Most Americans have coffee once or twice a day, and some more than that!" he exclaimed.
Sue frowned coldly,
"I am not a drug abuser,"
"And I'm not saying you are either, or that if you are it's even necessarily a bad thing, you are." Paul quickly pointed out, "I don't think people who smoke weed are drug abusers anymore than those who drink coffee are. It isn't right or wrong, that's just opinion. But I'm just stating what is and the questions concerning that." Paul breathed in and then out, and with it came the words, "I don't know how much of the substance you use, only you do. If anyone has been thinking that of you..." he trailed off, the implication was clear enough without need of him stating it. Sue's frown only grew with it.
"But more to the point," he continued, "I'm not comfortable that the majority of our nation's educators are drug abusers."
"Coffee is legal," Sue protested.
"Yes? And why isn't marijuana? You use a drug, in the eyes of the law, you might as well abuse it. But why, if weed is equivocable, if less harmful, how is it not legal too?"
"I don't know," she admitted. Paul gave her a small, sympathetic smile.
"I don't know either," he replied, and began to back off, "it doesn't make sense to me. And when we don't know why something is illegal, or wrong, why should we continue to treat it as such? When we can't definitively, undisputably say why something should be illegal, maybe we shouldn't have it be illegal. Maybe we should wait and see, and make sure there is a reason, instead of there being none at all." He shrugged, "after all, if weed was wrong because it was deadly, than cigarettes would be, too. They kill far more than Marijuana."
Again Paul shook his head.
"Tell me Sue, what is the difference between something and nothing?" he asked, the seemingly unrelated question taking her by surprise. She shook head, unsure how or even what to say, thinking that even if she did, it would not be the response he was looking for.
"Everything," he replied, giving the answer for her when it became obvious she expected it from him. "It is infinite. Marijuana, in all its years of use has never killed a single person. Tobacco; millions, hundreds of millions, potentially billions. But even if tobacco had killed just one person, just one, weed, herb, would be infinitely less, as weed has never killed anybody. The difference is everything, and marijuana is infinitely less fatal because of it, and yet at the same is still infinitely more illegal than the poison. It's less harmful than even coffee, which can easily destroy the heart. Paul shook his head again,
"I mean, when I'm at the register, on a daily basis I sell products; tobacco and alcohol, that enable addiction and ruin and even kill lives. Me, with totally legal products, allow others, just by selling it, to destroy lives as thoroughly as any illegal drug dealer-"
"But that's different!" Sue protested. Paul shrugged.
"There used to be an old couple here who I was real friendly with. You know how it is, the familiar customers you get to know. They knew my name, even, without a nametag." and he blinked, "But I don't think I ever caught theirs. I'm much less of a name person than a face person. I guess because names are just words, and words just describe us, but are faces are us, but I digress. I don't like talking about it, because it does my soul no good, but the older gentleman, a very kindly fellow everytime he came through my line, bought a carton of cigarettes every purchase, once a week. They did this on the same day of the week, today in fact, for I suppose forever. They were quite old. One day, about a year ago, though, they just stopped coming. I didn't think much of it for a few weeks until I noticed their abscence. But I didn't think much of it; perhaps they went elsewhere. However, just earlier the lady came to the store, but her husband was not there. I asked her where he was, joking with her that I had not seen the two of them together. She sadly told me that he had passed away from lung cancer."
His words, heavy hung in the air.
"Every pack I sold to him contributed, and though I may never know how much of a hand I had in his death, the fact is, I did. Just as the heroine dealer who sold the addicts last dose before they OD is held responsible, am not I?." he asked at the counter and raised his eyebrows, "How many people have I sold the bottle of wine or case of beer that set them on that road to addiction, or alcoholic rage and abuse? How many packs of cigarettes have I sold, that were the pack that assured that person's cancer and inevitable death? I just wanted to point out, that Marijuana was once sold in pharmacies like the one you werk," he said and patted the counter, "as was Opium and even Heroine, of which the later was even prescribed by doctors. Not many know the blitzkrieg that allowed Nazi Germany's early military successes, was enabled by speed that was rationed out to German soldiers by their superiors. Sigmund Freud, the father of modern psychology both used and advocated the usage of coke as a remedy for any number of ailments, disorders, and insanities. You have a gram of it today, you get twenty-five years. Ecstasy began its use in the office of a therapist helping struggling couples with their marriages. If people hadn't begun overusing it at parties it might even still be used today. And from all that we know that it is not the harm the drug may cause that makes it illegal, but if it is socially acceptable. In the years to come much of what is sold here will be replaced and subsequently made illegal. The drug users of today are tomorrow's abuser. For I certainly consider people who used those drugs that were legal in the past, such as opium or heroine, as drug abusers today."
"But it's different," Sue repeated and protested, "we found those drugs to be harmful, and that there are better ones to be used-"
"Only by matters of time," Paul replied. "Come now, in time the same will occur with all the things we sell here... Your stock will be replaced, and those who cling to what has gone out of fashion will be labeled as deviants, and after enough time, even drug abusers. Look at Aspirin, something incredibly detrimental to the body to the point of being deadly; surely somebody somewhere will create a drug that is more efficient and practical than it, replacing the drug." He shook his head, "The people who used the drugs in the pharmacy today are the next century's drug abusers. Enjoy it while you can. It's just the way of things; you're just next century's illegal drug dealer," His words lingered in the air, and despite her resolute dark frown, he smiled,
"Tobacco, is a good example. It's banned virtually everywhere, and once it becomes socially unacceptable it'll be outlawed. It already has been from everywhere indoors. I was at an amusement park last summer, and the areas where smokers are allowed to smoke are little better than closed off cages." he winked,
"What do you think?" he asked, "still bored?"
"I have to go back to werk," she said sharply, giving him a last, annoyed look, and then turned. She stalked behind the counter, and appeared to be genuinely werking, at least to Paul, shelving and arranging boxes of pills.
In turn, he returned to his own job, whistling an upbeat tune as he absentmindedly returned to spraying, washing, and dusting; skillfully cleaning the wisp-like grey matter away. Paul was certain that if the customers knew just what the dust was, and how much literally covered the store, he was certain they would never shop at Big People and the veritable graveyard that it is.
Every now and then Sue would glance up, over at Paul and then back at her werk. Paul noticed; when it came to people, he always did.
The area, a moment later was clear of everybody but just the two of them.
"You know what I do, to escape the fact I'm a drug dealer?" he asked. Sue looked from over the counter,
"Dare I ask?" she said sarcastically. However, there was a touch of something else, something that begged for more, a release from the truth Paul had shared with her. But it was but one of facet of the bigger truth, for if truth were a diamond, it would be a many sided one, and each side a part of the diamond as a whole. Each side adding beauty, reality, and truth.
"I clean," he answered, "I took the only job they had available at the time, and though I've been trying to escape it ever since, in that aspect, I don't regret my decision. At least I don't help people with their suicide anymore," and he cast a backward glance at the register, "or at least I don't nearly as much as I used to."
Sue paused to listen, and then shook her head.
"That's silly," she said, "I can't just transfer to another job because I disagree with this one. I have a house to pay, kids-" Paul shrugged,
"Take it as you will, or don't. It doesn't affect me either way; only you, and what you think is right and wrong. I'm not telling you what to do, but I am telling you what I did."
He shrugged again, as if dubious to her judgement, and then walked away, returning to his idle sweeping and contentedness.
Though he did not know it, Sue for many minutes stood there, contemplating what he had said. She left early that day, and as she did, folded her apron, and finding herself retiring much earlier than she had expected she would.
-Alexander Borschel
Creative Nonfiction- D. Ryan
It was February. West Virginia was blanketed in snow. My ashtray was blanketed in butts. I chain smoke when I drive. The kills were blasting loud over my stereo. God knows how fast I was going, but knowing West Virginia cops and my own impatience, it was well over 90m.p.h.. I don't like the drive, made it too many times. My car was old and wasn't really built for long distance travel. Miata's are fun to drive in short increments. But when you're cooped up in one for twelve hours, the length of the drive, they start to feel like a cramped cage. I had left Chicago at noon or thereabouts, so it was about eight or nine at night when I reached the mountains in West Virginia and felt my bladder notify me that I needed to piss. I exited off the interstate and started looking for a gas station.
West Virginia woods are beautiful at night. The scenery for most of the trip consists of corn and bean fields. West Virginia, on the other hand, looks untouched, looks natural. The tree's had long lost their leaves and their branches looked to be thin hands reaching for the snow as it slid down slowly, carefully, so as not to be caught. I watched the snow and tree's while I barreled down the snow covered side road. I know how to drive in the snow, so my speed only declined slightly during a series of planned fishtails while searching for a bathroom. After 15 minutes of no buildings I decided to stop and write my name in the snow.
It feels great to piss after holding it for a long time. I remember it felt great then, maybe that's why I didn't notice the engine shut off mid-stream. When I turned around to return to my car, I experienced a short wave of panic. For twenty minutes I tried to restart the engine. It was no use, the cable around the alternator had been loose enough to drain the battery over the duration of the trip without my noticing. The car was dead, I needed help.
I've always hated technology, but never as much as I did when I looked down at my cell phone and read "no signal" on the display. I'm kind of known for throwing phones against walls or into bodies of water, but I stopped myself that time. I realized that, no matter how therapeutic it would feel, it wouldn't help my situation. I looked in my trunk for warmer clothes and made the best combination I could. I had a Bears beanie, t-shirt, hoodie, leather motorcycle jacket, jeans, and chucks. Those god damn chucks. No closed toe shoe in history can be compared to the Converse Chuck Taylor All-Star in terms of inability to protect from weather.
I had only gotten a hundred yards up the road before my feet felt like they were freezing off. It must've been ten degrees out there. I sang songs to myself to keep my mind off of the pain in my body. I love the cold, but that cold seemed unforgiving. I went through all the Modest Mouse and Foo-Fighters songs I knew. Then moved onto The Black Heart Procession and Queens of the Stone Age. I know a lot of songs, and by the time I finished the entire QOTSA catalog I started to get worried.
I walk fast. Three miles in an hour is an easy task. I looked at my phone. As useless as it was as a phone, it was useful as a clock. I had been walking for eight hours. Something was wrong, I should have been at the Interstate at that point. I started walking downhill for a while. That's when I realized I must have lost my way. At no point on that road did I drive uphill that long, I was lost.
The sun started coming up and my body was shaking uncontrollably. I was too tired to move with urgency. I decided to climb back to the top part of the road to see what I could see. The sun peaked over the mountains and that's all I saw, mountains and tree's. The snow covered the road I was on. I saw no interstate, no buildings. My body calmed down for a moment. I looked out at the big valley in front of me. I heard geese fly over my head, which was strange in the dead of winter. I love that sound. I remember thinking "this is a perfect moment." One of those memories that goes untouched in your head. One of those times that, when I'm nervous or worried, I go back to and calm myself down. I felt disconnected and alone, those feelings are freeing. There was no static in my mind, no worries weighing me down. Just the moment, and nothing attached to it.
I was so consumed that I almost didn't hear the man say, "You alright out here?" I looked behind me and saw a man with a bunch of surveying equipment. I replied, "what?" He directed me to his truck. I got in and he turned on the heaters full blast. My toes and fingers felt like they were on fire. My face and stomach started hurting. I couldn't feel my lips at all. He lowered the mirror in front of me and told me to look at myself. My skin was blue. He wanted to take me to the hospital but I declined due to my lack of health insurance. Instead, he took me to a garage and I got my car towed and fixed.
I frequently remember back to that moment and wonder what made that moment so perfect. Was it the beauty of the mountains and trees and snow, the geese flying over head. Or was it my brain slowly shutting down, locking out all thoughts, focusing on the moment, disregarding everything but what I could see and hear. Maybe it was both, ignorance is bliss, eh?
West Virginia woods are beautiful at night. The scenery for most of the trip consists of corn and bean fields. West Virginia, on the other hand, looks untouched, looks natural. The tree's had long lost their leaves and their branches looked to be thin hands reaching for the snow as it slid down slowly, carefully, so as not to be caught. I watched the snow and tree's while I barreled down the snow covered side road. I know how to drive in the snow, so my speed only declined slightly during a series of planned fishtails while searching for a bathroom. After 15 minutes of no buildings I decided to stop and write my name in the snow.
It feels great to piss after holding it for a long time. I remember it felt great then, maybe that's why I didn't notice the engine shut off mid-stream. When I turned around to return to my car, I experienced a short wave of panic. For twenty minutes I tried to restart the engine. It was no use, the cable around the alternator had been loose enough to drain the battery over the duration of the trip without my noticing. The car was dead, I needed help.
I've always hated technology, but never as much as I did when I looked down at my cell phone and read "no signal" on the display. I'm kind of known for throwing phones against walls or into bodies of water, but I stopped myself that time. I realized that, no matter how therapeutic it would feel, it wouldn't help my situation. I looked in my trunk for warmer clothes and made the best combination I could. I had a Bears beanie, t-shirt, hoodie, leather motorcycle jacket, jeans, and chucks. Those god damn chucks. No closed toe shoe in history can be compared to the Converse Chuck Taylor All-Star in terms of inability to protect from weather.
I had only gotten a hundred yards up the road before my feet felt like they were freezing off. It must've been ten degrees out there. I sang songs to myself to keep my mind off of the pain in my body. I love the cold, but that cold seemed unforgiving. I went through all the Modest Mouse and Foo-Fighters songs I knew. Then moved onto The Black Heart Procession and Queens of the Stone Age. I know a lot of songs, and by the time I finished the entire QOTSA catalog I started to get worried.
I walk fast. Three miles in an hour is an easy task. I looked at my phone. As useless as it was as a phone, it was useful as a clock. I had been walking for eight hours. Something was wrong, I should have been at the Interstate at that point. I started walking downhill for a while. That's when I realized I must have lost my way. At no point on that road did I drive uphill that long, I was lost.
The sun started coming up and my body was shaking uncontrollably. I was too tired to move with urgency. I decided to climb back to the top part of the road to see what I could see. The sun peaked over the mountains and that's all I saw, mountains and tree's. The snow covered the road I was on. I saw no interstate, no buildings. My body calmed down for a moment. I looked out at the big valley in front of me. I heard geese fly over my head, which was strange in the dead of winter. I love that sound. I remember thinking "this is a perfect moment." One of those memories that goes untouched in your head. One of those times that, when I'm nervous or worried, I go back to and calm myself down. I felt disconnected and alone, those feelings are freeing. There was no static in my mind, no worries weighing me down. Just the moment, and nothing attached to it.
I was so consumed that I almost didn't hear the man say, "You alright out here?" I looked behind me and saw a man with a bunch of surveying equipment. I replied, "what?" He directed me to his truck. I got in and he turned on the heaters full blast. My toes and fingers felt like they were on fire. My face and stomach started hurting. I couldn't feel my lips at all. He lowered the mirror in front of me and told me to look at myself. My skin was blue. He wanted to take me to the hospital but I declined due to my lack of health insurance. Instead, he took me to a garage and I got my car towed and fixed.
I frequently remember back to that moment and wonder what made that moment so perfect. Was it the beauty of the mountains and trees and snow, the geese flying over head. Or was it my brain slowly shutting down, locking out all thoughts, focusing on the moment, disregarding everything but what I could see and hear. Maybe it was both, ignorance is bliss, eh?
Adventures in Wonderland by Craig Fontenot
As the middle child and only girl in a family of two boys, I always felt that I had to be able to hang. I live for adventure. Confrontational like my father, I take no shit and disobey traffic laws. Unlike my brother, Craig who is beyond conservative, straight-laced and at times can be rather boring. Because he is the oldest, he sometimes tries to tell me what to do and how to do it. This contrast does not mean that I am a thrill seeker. Usually, I just can handle an array of situations better than he can. But with all heights achieved, limits are soon discovered.
I remember it like yesterday. It was around 1pm on Saturday afternoon, March 17, 1993. Bored to tears, my cousin Nicole and I were hanging out in our dorm room. After expressing our boredom for the 5th time there was a knock at the door, it was a friend of ours name Mona. “I know you’ll bitches are not going to sit in this room all day?” Mona said. This kind of language was usually ignored as we just wrote her off as being quite ghetto. Sharing our feelings, Mona then came up with a plan that involved her boyfriend, Lynn. “Lynn is working until 8:30 p.m.” she said exactly, “we can all hang out at his place and by the time he gets off; we will have a plan set on what we will be doing tonight.” She continued. Ill at ease of the options before us; Nicole and I were not sure what to do. Now don’t get me wrong, Nicole and I did want to do something other than hang out in the dorm but both of us could take Mona in very small doses. Ultimately we decided that hanging out with Mona would be the less of the two evils.
Now that the idea was agreed upon by all 3 of us, we were faced with a transportation problem. An easy answer would be for us to hail a cab. But for 3 poor college students whose income is divided totally into the two B’s categories, books and beauty, our current cash flow was non-existent. “Who could get us to Lynn’s?” Nicole said. “I can ask Craig to use his car.” I said. “Girl, you are crazy!” Nicole said sarcastically. “He just that got that car a month ago, he would never let you use that car.” She continued. “You’re right, but I am going to ask anyway.” I said. Silently I knew that there was no way in hell he would let us use his car. Not because it was brand new; it was because he sort of thought I was not that responsible. There are 2 possible reasons for this: The first, he is an overly cautious tight ass and the second, well I was wrong about the number of possible reasons.
We all got dressed and with our hopes and shiny lip gloss we walked up to the male dormitory. Once we got there, called him down to the lobby. Now, I could come up with this elaborate lie but he would see right through me. So I will be honest with him and to my surprise he said yes. I was still pleading my case when he asked, “Did you hear what I said?” “Yes, I did.” I replied. “But I cannot believe you said yes.” I said honestly. He then gave me his usually spill about being careful and not wrecking his car and off we went.
We were at Lynn’s house at 5:30 p.m. To everyone’s surprise, except Mona, Lynn was there. So for the next hour or so, Nicole and I sat and watched Lynn and Mona paw at each other like a virgin at a prison rodeo. We were sitting there and there was a knock at the door. Some guy, whom we later found out his name later, Randy, walked in. Randy seemed to be startled that we were there. He did not want to sit and continued to look at his watch. He was not there for more than 3 minutes when four dudes strolled in. This occurrence was odd but for some reason I was not scared probably because everyone seem to know each other. That soon changed when one guy said to Randy, “We good.” With that acknowledgment, Randy left. However instead of using the front door, he ran out of the back door. That action seemed peculiar at first but the events that followed only got worse. In unison, the guys all pulled out guns and demanded the dope and money from Lynn. I remember looking at Nicole, and thinking, this has to be some sort of joke. “Where are drugs? Where is the money? Lynn was not that guy. His friends can be so silly.” I though. Then one guy walked up to Lynn and cocked the shotgun he held and pointed at him and said, “We don’t have time to fuck around, where is it?” Nicole said, “Are we on candied camera?” Our attitudes soon changed when Lynn said, “It over there, in that box.” One of the guys walked over to the box in question and opened it. I cannot believe all the drugs that came out of that box. Soon after Lynn directed them to a drawer with money in amounts that I have never saw in my life. I looked at Mona for some sort of assurance that this was something that was shocking to her but to my surprise she was quite calm. She was almost a little too calm, as if she has gone through this type of thing before. As two of the guys stuffed large bags with drugs and money, the other two guys stayed with guns had their guns still pointed at us. Upon completion, one of the bag stuffers asked Lynn, “Where’s the rest?” “That’s all there is.” Lynn replied. The gunman, who had the gun pointed at Lynn, struck him in the face with fist. Lynn fell to the floor, obviously writhing in pain. “Oh baby, are you ok?” Mona said. The second gunman kept his weapon point in our direction. I then noticed Nicole began to cry. The guy who hit Lynn said, “Lynn you want to be some big time drug king, welcome to the other side of the game!” He then pulled out some sort of duct tape. Still demanding more money and drugs, the gunman began taping Lynn’s hands behind his back and his feet. One by one he made the rest of us lie on the floor and did the same to us while there were now 3 guns pointed at us. This is when I began to cry. I am not sure how the other girls felt but I felt in my heart that they were going to rape us.
They tore his place apart. They went through all through the bedrooms, the bathrooms and even the refrigerator. Displeased with the contents of the refrigerator, one of the goons said, “Lynn, you invited these pretty ladies here with nothing to feed them with! What kind of buster are you?” Among the pleading, the screaming, and the ransacking of his personal items, I cried relentlessly. There was the consuming sound of my racing heart beat rang in my ears. Since I could not physically remove myself from the situation, I tried to, at least remove my mind from it. I remember lying still on the floor. The overpowering smell of some type of floral carpet deodorizer engulfed my nostrils. Either Lynn owns a very cheap Dirt Devil or his is just a substandard housekeeper because down here on the floor had massive amounts of the un-vacuumed powder. With the position of my head, my tears stopped midstream and unable to reach the end of my face. The dampness mixed with the carpet freshener made a cake-like substance near the end of my nostrils. If, at that moment, the police would have arrived that would have thought I was a coke fiend. Since they could not find any more drugs or money they began to take the jewelry on our hands. They took a charm bracelet I wore around my neck that my grandmother gave me when I was five. They went through all of our pockets. One of the goons said that this one has money but found nothing. Nicole who was always snacked on potato chips had 3 empty Doritos bags folded in her back pocket. Just as I was entering my semi-dream state this is when the intruders started going through all of our handbags. The goons said that they were taking our car keys. This is when I begged them to give my keys back. At that moment, I was more afraid of what Craig would do to me than the robbers. I begged and begged and the robber finally gave back the keys. As they were leaving, he tossed them hitting me in the back. He then said, “Bitch, you not going to say thank you!” In a sheepish voice I said, “thank you.” They then pulled out all of the phones out of the socket and threw Lynn’s keys in the darkness outside.
We laid there for the next hour and one by one we were able to untie our hands and feet. Nicole and I left Mona with Lynn searching for his keys in the darkness and we drove straight back to campus. I tried to put on poker face so that I would not alarm him. However, I return the car back to him at 8 p.m. and the pensive look did not work. It did not take long for him to know that something was wrong. He asked what happened. He did something I did not expect. He was comforting, understanding, and more of a big brother than a parent. Though he did not give me one of his long lectures or a hard time about the incident, he never let me use his car again.
I remember it like yesterday. It was around 1pm on Saturday afternoon, March 17, 1993. Bored to tears, my cousin Nicole and I were hanging out in our dorm room. After expressing our boredom for the 5th time there was a knock at the door, it was a friend of ours name Mona. “I know you’ll bitches are not going to sit in this room all day?” Mona said. This kind of language was usually ignored as we just wrote her off as being quite ghetto. Sharing our feelings, Mona then came up with a plan that involved her boyfriend, Lynn. “Lynn is working until 8:30 p.m.” she said exactly, “we can all hang out at his place and by the time he gets off; we will have a plan set on what we will be doing tonight.” She continued. Ill at ease of the options before us; Nicole and I were not sure what to do. Now don’t get me wrong, Nicole and I did want to do something other than hang out in the dorm but both of us could take Mona in very small doses. Ultimately we decided that hanging out with Mona would be the less of the two evils.
Now that the idea was agreed upon by all 3 of us, we were faced with a transportation problem. An easy answer would be for us to hail a cab. But for 3 poor college students whose income is divided totally into the two B’s categories, books and beauty, our current cash flow was non-existent. “Who could get us to Lynn’s?” Nicole said. “I can ask Craig to use his car.” I said. “Girl, you are crazy!” Nicole said sarcastically. “He just that got that car a month ago, he would never let you use that car.” She continued. “You’re right, but I am going to ask anyway.” I said. Silently I knew that there was no way in hell he would let us use his car. Not because it was brand new; it was because he sort of thought I was not that responsible. There are 2 possible reasons for this: The first, he is an overly cautious tight ass and the second, well I was wrong about the number of possible reasons.
We all got dressed and with our hopes and shiny lip gloss we walked up to the male dormitory. Once we got there, called him down to the lobby. Now, I could come up with this elaborate lie but he would see right through me. So I will be honest with him and to my surprise he said yes. I was still pleading my case when he asked, “Did you hear what I said?” “Yes, I did.” I replied. “But I cannot believe you said yes.” I said honestly. He then gave me his usually spill about being careful and not wrecking his car and off we went.
We were at Lynn’s house at 5:30 p.m. To everyone’s surprise, except Mona, Lynn was there. So for the next hour or so, Nicole and I sat and watched Lynn and Mona paw at each other like a virgin at a prison rodeo. We were sitting there and there was a knock at the door. Some guy, whom we later found out his name later, Randy, walked in. Randy seemed to be startled that we were there. He did not want to sit and continued to look at his watch. He was not there for more than 3 minutes when four dudes strolled in. This occurrence was odd but for some reason I was not scared probably because everyone seem to know each other. That soon changed when one guy said to Randy, “We good.” With that acknowledgment, Randy left. However instead of using the front door, he ran out of the back door. That action seemed peculiar at first but the events that followed only got worse. In unison, the guys all pulled out guns and demanded the dope and money from Lynn. I remember looking at Nicole, and thinking, this has to be some sort of joke. “Where are drugs? Where is the money? Lynn was not that guy. His friends can be so silly.” I though. Then one guy walked up to Lynn and cocked the shotgun he held and pointed at him and said, “We don’t have time to fuck around, where is it?” Nicole said, “Are we on candied camera?” Our attitudes soon changed when Lynn said, “It over there, in that box.” One of the guys walked over to the box in question and opened it. I cannot believe all the drugs that came out of that box. Soon after Lynn directed them to a drawer with money in amounts that I have never saw in my life. I looked at Mona for some sort of assurance that this was something that was shocking to her but to my surprise she was quite calm. She was almost a little too calm, as if she has gone through this type of thing before. As two of the guys stuffed large bags with drugs and money, the other two guys stayed with guns had their guns still pointed at us. Upon completion, one of the bag stuffers asked Lynn, “Where’s the rest?” “That’s all there is.” Lynn replied. The gunman, who had the gun pointed at Lynn, struck him in the face with fist. Lynn fell to the floor, obviously writhing in pain. “Oh baby, are you ok?” Mona said. The second gunman kept his weapon point in our direction. I then noticed Nicole began to cry. The guy who hit Lynn said, “Lynn you want to be some big time drug king, welcome to the other side of the game!” He then pulled out some sort of duct tape. Still demanding more money and drugs, the gunman began taping Lynn’s hands behind his back and his feet. One by one he made the rest of us lie on the floor and did the same to us while there were now 3 guns pointed at us. This is when I began to cry. I am not sure how the other girls felt but I felt in my heart that they were going to rape us.
They tore his place apart. They went through all through the bedrooms, the bathrooms and even the refrigerator. Displeased with the contents of the refrigerator, one of the goons said, “Lynn, you invited these pretty ladies here with nothing to feed them with! What kind of buster are you?” Among the pleading, the screaming, and the ransacking of his personal items, I cried relentlessly. There was the consuming sound of my racing heart beat rang in my ears. Since I could not physically remove myself from the situation, I tried to, at least remove my mind from it. I remember lying still on the floor. The overpowering smell of some type of floral carpet deodorizer engulfed my nostrils. Either Lynn owns a very cheap Dirt Devil or his is just a substandard housekeeper because down here on the floor had massive amounts of the un-vacuumed powder. With the position of my head, my tears stopped midstream and unable to reach the end of my face. The dampness mixed with the carpet freshener made a cake-like substance near the end of my nostrils. If, at that moment, the police would have arrived that would have thought I was a coke fiend. Since they could not find any more drugs or money they began to take the jewelry on our hands. They took a charm bracelet I wore around my neck that my grandmother gave me when I was five. They went through all of our pockets. One of the goons said that this one has money but found nothing. Nicole who was always snacked on potato chips had 3 empty Doritos bags folded in her back pocket. Just as I was entering my semi-dream state this is when the intruders started going through all of our handbags. The goons said that they were taking our car keys. This is when I begged them to give my keys back. At that moment, I was more afraid of what Craig would do to me than the robbers. I begged and begged and the robber finally gave back the keys. As they were leaving, he tossed them hitting me in the back. He then said, “Bitch, you not going to say thank you!” In a sheepish voice I said, “thank you.” They then pulled out all of the phones out of the socket and threw Lynn’s keys in the darkness outside.
We laid there for the next hour and one by one we were able to untie our hands and feet. Nicole and I left Mona with Lynn searching for his keys in the darkness and we drove straight back to campus. I tried to put on poker face so that I would not alarm him. However, I return the car back to him at 8 p.m. and the pensive look did not work. It did not take long for him to know that something was wrong. He asked what happened. He did something I did not expect. He was comforting, understanding, and more of a big brother than a parent. Though he did not give me one of his long lectures or a hard time about the incident, he never let me use his car again.
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