To all the seniors:
No matter what your heart is set on to do in your future, don't be afraid to change it.
May 8, 2008
Ten Reasons for School IDs
10. They give you more learning capability.
They help you learn to read, and when you can read them, you can read anything.
9. They give you self esteem.
When you are having a low self esteem day, you can look down and see you still exist.
8. They help you to remember your name.
Just in case you forget what you have been called since birth.
7. They bring equality to the school.
When you wear them, students and teachers are equal. They are our school uniform.
6. They are the perfect accessory.
Its colorful photograph makes it match any outfit.
5. They are recyclable.
Use them through out your high school years, no one really checks the year on them anyway.
4. They make a great cheat sheet.
The blank white of the back works perfect for writing answers on; just don’t get caught. :-) And if someone happens to notice you, just tell them you forgot your name. (see reason 8)
3. They help protect from any illness, including Staph Infection and STDs.
The plastic contains a natural remedy to keep you perfectly healthy so you will never miss a day of school.
2. It helps people to know that you belong here.
You know, like when your teacher asks you in April if you belong here because they haven’t seen you every day since September.
AND THE NUMBER ONE REASON FOR HAVING SCHOOL IDS
1. They protect you from bullets, bombs, and child molesters.
The plastic of the ID will create a force field, which, in the event you are threatened by any or all of these occurrences, will create a barrier ten feet away from you to keep you safe.
They help you learn to read, and when you can read them, you can read anything.
9. They give you self esteem.
When you are having a low self esteem day, you can look down and see you still exist.
8. They help you to remember your name.
Just in case you forget what you have been called since birth.
7. They bring equality to the school.
When you wear them, students and teachers are equal. They are our school uniform.
6. They are the perfect accessory.
Its colorful photograph makes it match any outfit.
5. They are recyclable.
Use them through out your high school years, no one really checks the year on them anyway.
4. They make a great cheat sheet.
The blank white of the back works perfect for writing answers on; just don’t get caught. :-) And if someone happens to notice you, just tell them you forgot your name. (see reason 8)
3. They help protect from any illness, including Staph Infection and STDs.
The plastic contains a natural remedy to keep you perfectly healthy so you will never miss a day of school.
2. It helps people to know that you belong here.
You know, like when your teacher asks you in April if you belong here because they haven’t seen you every day since September.
AND THE NUMBER ONE REASON FOR HAVING SCHOOL IDS
1. They protect you from bullets, bombs, and child molesters.
The plastic of the ID will create a force field, which, in the event you are threatened by any or all of these occurrences, will create a barrier ten feet away from you to keep you safe.
Apr 3, 2008
A Comfort Place
The moment you step into the deep blue of the room, the scent of boy mixed with dragon’s blood incense tickles your nose into a smile. Dragon statues stare down from every angle, watching each movement in the room. The light brown desk sites beside the bright white door, small lamps and dragons lining one side, while a computer sits along the next wall. Settled into the corner beside a lamp sits a chess set, simply collecting dust next to the computer. A knife sits beside a speaker while six photos hang in the small arch above the silver monitor. On the shelf sits CD’s as well as a birthday gift of three small dragon statues, hear, see, and speak no evil, all guarded by a miniature Goofy figurine, ready to fight. The highest tier of the desk is home to more dragons, all beside a TV which matches the computer.
Beside the corner desk, a small darker wood bookshelf sits, one of three in the room. This is home to the DirecTV box, Play Station 2, assorted videogames, and collage books. In the corner next door sits the closet, a similar white door to the entry, trimmed in brown.
Turn the corner and there sits the empty white dresser beneath a large window. An oversized, leopard print lamp stands awkwardly sits in the corner, as though trying to hide how it doesn’t match the rest of the room. Beside the lamp, two swords as simple decorations take up the space atop the dresser.
The bed lays beside the dressers, on the last of the four walls. The marble blue sheets and pillows are all that sit neatly; the navy blue velvet blanket, graduation blanket, and home-knit rainbow blanket pile around a stuffed dog and Beanie Baby leopard in the center of the bed. Beside the bed sit two more bookshelves, identical to that which houses his electronics, though these are full of DVD’s and books. A clock which shouts the time in red sits atop the nearest of the two to his bed, his main way of knowing the time. Hanging above the bookshelves is a large pirate flag, recently dug from the depths of his closet. Somehow, this once messy room always comforts me.
Beside the corner desk, a small darker wood bookshelf sits, one of three in the room. This is home to the DirecTV box, Play Station 2, assorted videogames, and collage books. In the corner next door sits the closet, a similar white door to the entry, trimmed in brown.
Turn the corner and there sits the empty white dresser beneath a large window. An oversized, leopard print lamp stands awkwardly sits in the corner, as though trying to hide how it doesn’t match the rest of the room. Beside the lamp, two swords as simple decorations take up the space atop the dresser.
The bed lays beside the dressers, on the last of the four walls. The marble blue sheets and pillows are all that sit neatly; the navy blue velvet blanket, graduation blanket, and home-knit rainbow blanket pile around a stuffed dog and Beanie Baby leopard in the center of the bed. Beside the bed sit two more bookshelves, identical to that which houses his electronics, though these are full of DVD’s and books. A clock which shouts the time in red sits atop the nearest of the two to his bed, his main way of knowing the time. Hanging above the bookshelves is a large pirate flag, recently dug from the depths of his closet. Somehow, this once messy room always comforts me.
Mar 19, 2008
Characters
Each star (*) is a new character thing....
----
*He sits hidden from the sunlight, yet still partly in it; an attempt to be comfortable but not fall asleep, and if he does fall asleep, it wouldn’t be the first time. His dark brown hair is in its typical ponytail rather than falling just below his shoulders where it naturally lays. The black sweatshirt that he always carries is around his waist where he sits. I still have no idea why he carries it, it could be three degrees out and he would ask for an open window. He practically generates heat. It’s a beautiful day out, and he’s not off to stock shelves after school, instead he will probably be found in the two acre year, sword in hand, being his typical show-off self. But then, I’ve always call him a show off, simply because he does things I never could, things years of practice taught him. Or, maybe he won’t even have the sword, but instead will venture into the trees in the yard and start up his photography again.
He sits there, carrying a middle name he despises and a mother he jokingly calls dad; if you ever see her you will learn why. Being the youngest and only son, he’s used to torture and makeup, and has even been known to put eyeliner on himself. His Joker Rose tattoo carries a story of brotherhood, and in it’s year on his arm, has seen breakups, arguments, and ink from his baby sister’s pen. And now, it is watching a silent classroom and a nap in the sun.
* For the longest time, all most of us knew was Brian had finally met someone. Finally. No name, no age, for a day or two we didn’t even know if it was a he or a she. Then, I at least, started to feel like a stalker. Still nameless, I learned she held the same twenty six years as he did. I saw a photo of her next. She is tiny. In the photo, her brown hair was pulled back, so I still have no idea how long it is. She was pail and fragile looking; the explanation for this came later, when I added that she has a three year old son to my list of knowledge. Slowly, I learned more about her. Her father lives in Florida, her son is a typical three year old, and then suddenly, she and Brian are engaged, how long have we known about her? She visited her father recently, who she hadn’t seen in, seven I believe, years. She has sunburn now. See? Stalker.
*He lays curled into the blankets of my bed, asleep as usual before going to work. His blonde ponytail falls neatly to his mid-back. Somehow, his sleep is motionless and peaceful after a hectic day. His glasses, which typically sit before his grey-blue eyes, sit carefully on his laptop while he rests. Two earrings sit on his right ear and a single bracelet on his left. My necklace is visible above his dark-grey shirt. A single foot is visible beneath the blue blanket; while sock bight against the black quilt he lay atop. His newly-added tattoo is visible at the base of this neck, his Pisces symbol surrounded by Celtic knots dark against his light skin. His angelic sleeping form gives the illusion he was a quiet-mannered shy, young man of twenty. I had learned that he was quite the opposite after getting to know him. His shy manner would show only the first time or two meeting someone, and then the fun-loving side would emerge. He had grown much since I met him, his childish-yet-too-adult manor had both matured and balanced; letting the child out when right, but still being his age.
*She rolled out of bed, well actually, it was more like a crawl, at six am bringing one side of her body over the other took too much effort. She threw her arm out and hit the button on her alarm to turn off the screech of music before it woke anyone else. Her face fell into the pillow as she lost the battle to hold herself up with one arm. She detangled herself from the blankets and fell with a thud to the floor in the process. She let out a curse of pain as her head hit the wood bed frame, knocking her dizzy for a moment. She pulled herself up and grabbed the first peace of clothing from the pile beside her closet she found. She smelt it, and after deciding it didn’t smell too badly, dubbed it clean, took the t-shirt she wore off, and pulled it over her head. She pulled a pair of jeans off the couch nearby and pulled them on, her pajama pants had been kicked off at some point that night, as usual. She then turned on the light above her head and looked at herself in the mirror. As she ran her fingers though her long blonde hair, she assessed the damage. Her shirt was a generic tank top. The once purple fabric was not faded to almost lilac. Her jeans had been tie-dyed from all the marker and paint stains. She shrugged. “Good enough for me,” she mumbled as she left the room.
*“Where the hell have you been?!” I shouted at the being standing before me. She interrupted my work, or attempt at work anyway, blinding me when she entered my attic workroom. I knew who she was instantly, because she hadn’t been around in days, and as soon as she arrived I felt a rush of creativity.
“Sorry,” she squeaked as she child began to play with her knee-length silver hair, twirling it nervously through her fingers. Her silver eyes dropped to the floor, as though inspecting her long light-blue dress. I rolled my eyes and returned to work. Who could stay angry at their muse when there was work to get done?
*She found her way, once again, onto the stage, the soft shoes on her feet not breaking the silence of the room. Her long auburn hair falls freely to her mid-back, held away from her face by a simple diamond clip above her left ear. Her knee-length danced around her legs as she made her way to her partner; rhinestones set in deep red glistening with every step. She reaches him and in that instant the music starts, and the couple flawlessly begins their well rehearsed routine.
----
*He sits hidden from the sunlight, yet still partly in it; an attempt to be comfortable but not fall asleep, and if he does fall asleep, it wouldn’t be the first time. His dark brown hair is in its typical ponytail rather than falling just below his shoulders where it naturally lays. The black sweatshirt that he always carries is around his waist where he sits. I still have no idea why he carries it, it could be three degrees out and he would ask for an open window. He practically generates heat. It’s a beautiful day out, and he’s not off to stock shelves after school, instead he will probably be found in the two acre year, sword in hand, being his typical show-off self. But then, I’ve always call him a show off, simply because he does things I never could, things years of practice taught him. Or, maybe he won’t even have the sword, but instead will venture into the trees in the yard and start up his photography again.
He sits there, carrying a middle name he despises and a mother he jokingly calls dad; if you ever see her you will learn why. Being the youngest and only son, he’s used to torture and makeup, and has even been known to put eyeliner on himself. His Joker Rose tattoo carries a story of brotherhood, and in it’s year on his arm, has seen breakups, arguments, and ink from his baby sister’s pen. And now, it is watching a silent classroom and a nap in the sun.
* For the longest time, all most of us knew was Brian had finally met someone. Finally. No name, no age, for a day or two we didn’t even know if it was a he or a she. Then, I at least, started to feel like a stalker. Still nameless, I learned she held the same twenty six years as he did. I saw a photo of her next. She is tiny. In the photo, her brown hair was pulled back, so I still have no idea how long it is. She was pail and fragile looking; the explanation for this came later, when I added that she has a three year old son to my list of knowledge. Slowly, I learned more about her. Her father lives in Florida, her son is a typical three year old, and then suddenly, she and Brian are engaged, how long have we known about her? She visited her father recently, who she hadn’t seen in, seven I believe, years. She has sunburn now. See? Stalker.
*He lays curled into the blankets of my bed, asleep as usual before going to work. His blonde ponytail falls neatly to his mid-back. Somehow, his sleep is motionless and peaceful after a hectic day. His glasses, which typically sit before his grey-blue eyes, sit carefully on his laptop while he rests. Two earrings sit on his right ear and a single bracelet on his left. My necklace is visible above his dark-grey shirt. A single foot is visible beneath the blue blanket; while sock bight against the black quilt he lay atop. His newly-added tattoo is visible at the base of this neck, his Pisces symbol surrounded by Celtic knots dark against his light skin. His angelic sleeping form gives the illusion he was a quiet-mannered shy, young man of twenty. I had learned that he was quite the opposite after getting to know him. His shy manner would show only the first time or two meeting someone, and then the fun-loving side would emerge. He had grown much since I met him, his childish-yet-too-adult manor had both matured and balanced; letting the child out when right, but still being his age.
*She rolled out of bed, well actually, it was more like a crawl, at six am bringing one side of her body over the other took too much effort. She threw her arm out and hit the button on her alarm to turn off the screech of music before it woke anyone else. Her face fell into the pillow as she lost the battle to hold herself up with one arm. She detangled herself from the blankets and fell with a thud to the floor in the process. She let out a curse of pain as her head hit the wood bed frame, knocking her dizzy for a moment. She pulled herself up and grabbed the first peace of clothing from the pile beside her closet she found. She smelt it, and after deciding it didn’t smell too badly, dubbed it clean, took the t-shirt she wore off, and pulled it over her head. She pulled a pair of jeans off the couch nearby and pulled them on, her pajama pants had been kicked off at some point that night, as usual. She then turned on the light above her head and looked at herself in the mirror. As she ran her fingers though her long blonde hair, she assessed the damage. Her shirt was a generic tank top. The once purple fabric was not faded to almost lilac. Her jeans had been tie-dyed from all the marker and paint stains. She shrugged. “Good enough for me,” she mumbled as she left the room.
*“Where the hell have you been?!” I shouted at the being standing before me. She interrupted my work, or attempt at work anyway, blinding me when she entered my attic workroom. I knew who she was instantly, because she hadn’t been around in days, and as soon as she arrived I felt a rush of creativity.
“Sorry,” she squeaked as she child began to play with her knee-length silver hair, twirling it nervously through her fingers. Her silver eyes dropped to the floor, as though inspecting her long light-blue dress. I rolled my eyes and returned to work. Who could stay angry at their muse when there was work to get done?
*She found her way, once again, onto the stage, the soft shoes on her feet not breaking the silence of the room. Her long auburn hair falls freely to her mid-back, held away from her face by a simple diamond clip above her left ear. Her knee-length danced around her legs as she made her way to her partner; rhinestones set in deep red glistening with every step. She reaches him and in that instant the music starts, and the couple flawlessly begins their well rehearsed routine.
Mar 14, 2008
Look Around
Look Around
By: Ashley Green
WARNING: Some may take offense in reading any or all of this paper.
Sit in the cafeteria one day and look around. I’m sure you will automatically find the cliques sitting in the room. Really, it’s not too hard to do.
The black clothed goth-emo-90’s punk-scene kids sit in the nearby corner, as though trying to hide in the shadows away from the world. They are all similar, same dark clothes, makeup, and nails, and may well just all be called goth, because they will simply tell you they are something else; though they all look the same.
The druggies, most of who have been convicted of at least one crime, sit in the corner along the same wall as the goth group. They are too ‘far out’ so notice anything else going on around them, or how far away from them everyone pushes themselves, as though they will catch a disease.
The third corner of the room is occupied by the pimple-faced nerds, Dungeons and Dragons books open, all searching for the perfect way to level up, or talking about the newest videogame that has come out and arguing over who beat it first.
The nerds are sure that their corner never overflows into the nearby preps table, where the boys sit with collared shirts and the girls wear their hundred and ten dollar boots, perfect hair, flawless makeup which they are needlessly touching up for the fifth time today. The boys are talking about who is the hottest girl in school while the girls are planning whose car would look best to take to the football game tonight, being played by the boys two rows over, the jocks.
The jocks sit there, ruling the school in the center of the room, wearing their football jerseys or their varsity jacket. This is where all the ‘star’ athletes congregate; the captain of the basketball team, the all-star swimmer, the champion wrestler, and the fastest runner. The jocks not only are school-sports kids, but they spent all non-school time in sports that the school doesn’t offer; lacrosse, volleyball, hockey, etc. You name it, they play it. They laugh and joke, occasionally glancing to the table next to theirs, where the cheerleaders sit.
The cheerleaders watch the room, the queens of the land we call school. They are almost indistinguishable from the preps on a normal day, but today their long hair is pulled up, matching, of course, and they are all in their uniforms. There is a game tonight, what else would they be wearing? Anything they don’t like is laugh worthy, or simply not worth talking to.
Just down the row from them, the theater and arts students stake clams to the table. This is the most diverse group in the room. Here, the musicians, artists, singers, painters, and actors sit to eat on the rare occasion that they are in the room, with practices and just the right inspiration they venture off to their classrooms to continue their work though lunch.
Between the preps and the jocks sit a small group who can go by no name other than grade lovers. These grade lovers are the kids who think that an 85 is horrible, and forget an 80, it’s beneath them. They are the kids who have everything done the day it is assigned, who have never handed in a late paper, never missed a homework assignment, who obsess over a test until long after it has been taken.
And then, in the last open space in the room, in the farthest corner from the door where you stand, sit the quiet kids. The teacher’s favorite students, the ones who sit silent in the back row of class, get decent but not perfect grades, have a small group of friends, and have never been in trouble. They tend to fall victim to the jokes of the center-of-the-room crowd (the preps, jocks, cheerleaders, and even a few arts students), because of their year-out-of-date-clothes or quite attitude, but they are too passive to fight them about it.
Now, take a good, close look at these groups. What about the jock who loves videogames? Or the prep who would rather wear black and hide away? And don’t forget the cheerleader who draws behind everyone else’s backs? Oh, and there is the druggie who wants to play football, and the nerd who has the flawless makeup and hair. And then the quiet kids, who do non-school sports, them too. Where do they go?
Mix everyone together now and put them where they really belong. Go ahead, it’s okay. The cheerleader sitting next to the nerd won’t die, and the jock who touched the quiet kid won’t become mute, the prep who is between two druggies didn’t get a disease. Now, that’s better, everyone is where they should really be. Wait, that just made the cafeteria one big mass didn’t it? Exactlly.
By: Ashley Green
WARNING: Some may take offense in reading any or all of this paper.
Sit in the cafeteria one day and look around. I’m sure you will automatically find the cliques sitting in the room. Really, it’s not too hard to do.
The black clothed goth-emo-90’s punk-scene kids sit in the nearby corner, as though trying to hide in the shadows away from the world. They are all similar, same dark clothes, makeup, and nails, and may well just all be called goth, because they will simply tell you they are something else; though they all look the same.
The druggies, most of who have been convicted of at least one crime, sit in the corner along the same wall as the goth group. They are too ‘far out’ so notice anything else going on around them, or how far away from them everyone pushes themselves, as though they will catch a disease.
The third corner of the room is occupied by the pimple-faced nerds, Dungeons and Dragons books open, all searching for the perfect way to level up, or talking about the newest videogame that has come out and arguing over who beat it first.
The nerds are sure that their corner never overflows into the nearby preps table, where the boys sit with collared shirts and the girls wear their hundred and ten dollar boots, perfect hair, flawless makeup which they are needlessly touching up for the fifth time today. The boys are talking about who is the hottest girl in school while the girls are planning whose car would look best to take to the football game tonight, being played by the boys two rows over, the jocks.
The jocks sit there, ruling the school in the center of the room, wearing their football jerseys or their varsity jacket. This is where all the ‘star’ athletes congregate; the captain of the basketball team, the all-star swimmer, the champion wrestler, and the fastest runner. The jocks not only are school-sports kids, but they spent all non-school time in sports that the school doesn’t offer; lacrosse, volleyball, hockey, etc. You name it, they play it. They laugh and joke, occasionally glancing to the table next to theirs, where the cheerleaders sit.
The cheerleaders watch the room, the queens of the land we call school. They are almost indistinguishable from the preps on a normal day, but today their long hair is pulled up, matching, of course, and they are all in their uniforms. There is a game tonight, what else would they be wearing? Anything they don’t like is laugh worthy, or simply not worth talking to.
Just down the row from them, the theater and arts students stake clams to the table. This is the most diverse group in the room. Here, the musicians, artists, singers, painters, and actors sit to eat on the rare occasion that they are in the room, with practices and just the right inspiration they venture off to their classrooms to continue their work though lunch.
Between the preps and the jocks sit a small group who can go by no name other than grade lovers. These grade lovers are the kids who think that an 85 is horrible, and forget an 80, it’s beneath them. They are the kids who have everything done the day it is assigned, who have never handed in a late paper, never missed a homework assignment, who obsess over a test until long after it has been taken.
And then, in the last open space in the room, in the farthest corner from the door where you stand, sit the quiet kids. The teacher’s favorite students, the ones who sit silent in the back row of class, get decent but not perfect grades, have a small group of friends, and have never been in trouble. They tend to fall victim to the jokes of the center-of-the-room crowd (the preps, jocks, cheerleaders, and even a few arts students), because of their year-out-of-date-clothes or quite attitude, but they are too passive to fight them about it.
Now, take a good, close look at these groups. What about the jock who loves videogames? Or the prep who would rather wear black and hide away? And don’t forget the cheerleader who draws behind everyone else’s backs? Oh, and there is the druggie who wants to play football, and the nerd who has the flawless makeup and hair. And then the quiet kids, who do non-school sports, them too. Where do they go?
Mix everyone together now and put them where they really belong. Go ahead, it’s okay. The cheerleader sitting next to the nerd won’t die, and the jock who touched the quiet kid won’t become mute, the prep who is between two druggies didn’t get a disease. Now, that’s better, everyone is where they should really be. Wait, that just made the cafeteria one big mass didn’t it? Exactlly.
Mar 6, 2008
Bedtime Whispers
He stepped over the stones littering the ground as he neared her bedroom. The moon rose above the trees as he stepped into the building and placed roses beside her. “Happy Valentines Day baby,” he whispered to her sleeping form. He gently kissed the stone bed in which she lay. “I miss you.”
Red Speckles
She watched the deep red dot sit on her finger and looked once again at the building covered in similar speckles. A tear fell from the child’s eye as the dot left her finger. The little girl whispered, “Go on mister ladybug, go and join your friends.”
Feb 28, 2008
I Am From Life (FINAL, COMPLEATE, REVISED, AND ADDED TO!)
I Am From Life
-Ashley Green
I am from long summer nights; lying in the sand;
Watching fireworks over the motionless water;
Games of Frisbee played on the hot asphalt road;
Until well after dark;
Lying on the grassy hill with neighbors watching the sun set,
Turning the sky pinks and purples.
I am from the tears of leaving one home for another,
Never to return;
The loneliness of a new school,
And not knowing where to go;
The fear of a new start,
Alone and outcasted;
The pain on not being accepted.
I am from the sounds of live music
In a small overcrowded theater;
The long bike rides with a close friend,
Never knowing when to return home;
A sleigh ride in a neighbor’s yard,
On a long awaited snow day.
I am from the tears of lost loved ones,
Friends and family alike;
Arguments between us,
Some never resolved;
The scars left in painful times,
Some of which still surface;
Grudges held with no real reason,
Causing bonds never to be made.
I am from the connections made,
Through opening up for a day;
People to lean on in hard times,
Through simply knowing their ‘brother;’
A big sister and big brother,
A close relationship with each;
Stuffed friends to cuddle with,
Because they never get angry at you.
I am from the forgiveness of mistakes;
Second chances,
both given and received;
Secrets kept between us,
Two people who are sisters in everything but blood.
Nights spent on movie marathons,
Broadway plays, horror films, and chick flicks.
I am from childish tendencies,
Things like coloring and legos;
Boyish attitudes,
Desires to do things like hike and run free;
Adult advice,
Give on relationships and school.
I am from secret crushes kept silent inside;
Open love, admitted at just the right moment;
Moments spent alone, happy, calm.
I am from everything I have been through;
Every thought;
Every feeling;
Every smile;
Every tear.
I am from Life.
-Ashley Green
I am from long summer nights; lying in the sand;
Watching fireworks over the motionless water;
Games of Frisbee played on the hot asphalt road;
Until well after dark;
Lying on the grassy hill with neighbors watching the sun set,
Turning the sky pinks and purples.
I am from the tears of leaving one home for another,
Never to return;
The loneliness of a new school,
And not knowing where to go;
The fear of a new start,
Alone and outcasted;
The pain on not being accepted.
I am from the sounds of live music
In a small overcrowded theater;
The long bike rides with a close friend,
Never knowing when to return home;
A sleigh ride in a neighbor’s yard,
On a long awaited snow day.
I am from the tears of lost loved ones,
Friends and family alike;
Arguments between us,
Some never resolved;
The scars left in painful times,
Some of which still surface;
Grudges held with no real reason,
Causing bonds never to be made.
I am from the connections made,
Through opening up for a day;
People to lean on in hard times,
Through simply knowing their ‘brother;’
A big sister and big brother,
A close relationship with each;
Stuffed friends to cuddle with,
Because they never get angry at you.
I am from the forgiveness of mistakes;
Second chances,
both given and received;
Secrets kept between us,
Two people who are sisters in everything but blood.
Nights spent on movie marathons,
Broadway plays, horror films, and chick flicks.
I am from childish tendencies,
Things like coloring and legos;
Boyish attitudes,
Desires to do things like hike and run free;
Adult advice,
Give on relationships and school.
I am from secret crushes kept silent inside;
Open love, admitted at just the right moment;
Moments spent alone, happy, calm.
I am from everything I have been through;
Every thought;
Every feeling;
Every smile;
Every tear.
I am from Life.
A Warm Place
Curl into pillows
Piled on the floor.
The late winter sun
Falls across your body,
Blanketing you in warmth.
The sun falls in the sky
As daydreams drift into a deeper sleep.
You begin to stir
As the blanket is pulled
From your body.
Awake,
To find the afternoon sun
Has fallen into pinks and purples
Painting a winter sky.
Piled on the floor.
The late winter sun
Falls across your body,
Blanketing you in warmth.
The sun falls in the sky
As daydreams drift into a deeper sleep.
You begin to stir
As the blanket is pulled
From your body.
Awake,
To find the afternoon sun
Has fallen into pinks and purples
Painting a winter sky.
Feb 20, 2008
She Flies
She Flies
By: Ashley Green
Fly.
Away from oppression,
Away from pain,
Away from the world.
She flies free,
High above the pain
A speck of silver
Glittering on the blue sky.
Her dress flows
To become a lake
Dancing around her
Making her the bird
Everyone wishes to be.
By: Ashley Green
Fly.
Away from oppression,
Away from pain,
Away from the world.
She flies free,
High above the pain
A speck of silver
Glittering on the blue sky.
Her dress flows
To become a lake
Dancing around her
Making her the bird
Everyone wishes to be.
Alone and Angry
Alone and Angry
By: Ashley Green
Glowing with hatred,
Rage sits alone
Red faced,
Torn clothes,
Everyone has run from him,
Fearing for their lives.
No friends.
No family.
He sits,
Hot tempered
Alone in the destroyed room
Looking for the next thing
To turn his anger on
By: Ashley Green
Glowing with hatred,
Rage sits alone
Red faced,
Torn clothes,
Everyone has run from him,
Fearing for their lives.
No friends.
No family.
He sits,
Hot tempered
Alone in the destroyed room
Looking for the next thing
To turn his anger on
Feb 7, 2008
Orion in December
Orion in December
By Ashley Green
Based on a Watercolor Painting
by Charles Burchfield
Stars look down
Through falling snow
Watching leafless trees
As they hide sleeping animals.
He watches as well,
His belt all that is easily seen.
His place as a hunter,
And his tragic story
Well known by the sleepers.
His story passed through generations.
He watches as a warrior
To keep their sleeping families safe
On any lonely winter night.
(Orion in December by Charles Burchfield)
By Ashley Green
Based on a Watercolor Painting
by Charles Burchfield
Stars look down
Through falling snow
Watching leafless trees
As they hide sleeping animals.
He watches as well,
His belt all that is easily seen.
His place as a hunter,
And his tragic story
Well known by the sleepers.
His story passed through generations.
He watches as a warrior
To keep their sleeping families safe
On any lonely winter night.
(Orion in December by Charles Burchfield)
Feb 6, 2008
Emonerdysexyness
‘Emonerdysexyness’
By: Ashley Green
Looking back, I really have no idea why I was so nervous that night. It really was no big deal, but still I made it out to be one. Yes me; the one who will roll out of bed to go to school, the one who never cared what she looked like, the one who thought appearance was the last thing someone should be attracted to. I spent two hours getting ready that night. Two hours. What happened to me?
It was a warm September Friday night, the first week of the new school year. For once, I had plans. And even less likely in my often boring life, I was both nervous and excited about those plans. The two hours I had spent ‘prepping’ for the evening seemed like so much less, and, yet, it was still barely enough time. My nails had been painted the day before, a small sign of my desire to look perfect, especially considering how rarely I painted them. And then, to make it even stranger, I was in heels. I mean, I love dressing up, but I NEVER wear heels with blue jeans, let alone out somewhere they were not required. But I knew he was five foot eleven inches, and my measly five foot four inches would not suffice. So my long dark-blue, perfect-fit jeans were complimented by the four inch sandal-heels I had bought for my Tennessee trip the previous summer. I grabbed my favorite black lace tank-top out of my closet and pulled it on as my cell phone beeped at me; a text message from one of my friends who had set this whole event up. “On my way” was all the message said.
“Great…” I mumbled into the empty house. I dropped the phone into my purse with a heavy sigh. That meant I had twenty minutes, at most, to finish getting ready. I grabbed my makeup out of the drawer, laughing slightly at the fact the eyeliner was still in its store wrappings. I had bought it two months earlier ‘just in case.’ Carefully, I began the precise art of makeup application as my flat iron warmed itself. I know my hair is naturally straight; but that single wave in my hair needed to be gone. That, and straightening my hair had a habit of bringing the red dye in my hair to its brightest color. Once the eyeliner and silver-grey eye shadow was perfect, I ran the iron through my hair, slipped the long silver earrings into my first hole, and looked at myself in my mother’s full length mirror. Perfect myspace picture. I giggled to myself as I heard a car horn outside. I ran into my room, as best I could in heels, threw my makeup into my purse (because I knew I would touch it up at least twice) and left.
Once I sat in the blonde’s car, my nerves grew even more. “Can you tell I’m trying?” I asked her, even before hello.
“You look fine,” She replied simply, and pulled out of my driveway.
***
The next two hours became a blur. I know we returned to Michelle, the blonde’s, house. I went on her computer to find a message from him, the third I had ever received, complete with his phone number. Michelle’s friend / date for the night, Justin, showed up; Steph, the other culprit in this set up, and her boyfriend Joe were running a little late, but arrived soon enough, and we left to go see our undecided movie. We were all driven down to Rockaway Theater by the would-be-racecar driver Joe, who came complete with mumblings to other drivers and all.
The loud car ride at 75 mph down Route 15 got my mind off my nerves, until, he called Joe, or maybe Joe called him; but either way, he was definitely on the phone with the madman behind the wheel. My nerves jumped back; here I was, 10 minutes from meeting my blind date. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. It helped just enough to put the nervous, shy part of me aside, and remind me I needed to be myself.
As we pulled into the parking lot, excitement filled me. We left the car and began to walk toward the mass of people at the theater entrance. My eyes scanned the crowd as I looked looking for the long blonde hair and glasses he possessed. I had seen a picture of him, and dubbed him ‘emonerdysexyness’ in conversation with my friends.
Suddenly, with an almost vampire-like speed, he was beside me. “Hey,” he said to the mostly unfamiliar group.
Everyone replied with their hellos and introductions. I waited until last, and waved, slightly awkward. “I’m Ashley.”
He smiled with a similarly anxious look. He quickly scanned my appearance before replying, “I’m Bill.”
I grinned. “I figured,” I responded, causing him to smirk. I vaguely recognized him from somewhere at the start, yet it would be two months before I learned where; he had been the boy, five years earlier, who I had seen and thought was cute at the roller rink. He was also the boy at Hobby Town I found adorable when there with my mother one day. Weird huh?
Once in the theater, the group stopped. “So what are we seeing?” Steph asked us.
We all glanced up at the movie listings. “Halloween?” Joe suggested.
I sighed. I had expected that suggestion from someone. “Sixteen,” I said bluntly, pointing at Justin and then myself. “R means 17, and they ID everyone.”
The argument endured for a few minutes, a jumbled mess in the already loud room, before The Simpsons Movie was decided upon, and we finally got in line. “I’ll get your ticket,” Bill told me as we neared the front of the line.
“Are you sure?” I asked. I have always hated when people do that, well had always hated until just after that night, when I learned it wasn’t worth arguing it anymore.
“Of course,” he replied as we became next in line.
I smiled. For some reason, I didn’t argue as I normally would have.
The tickets were bought, the theater was found, and I sat contently between Bill and Michelle, hoping silently he would put his arm around me, or move to hold my hand. He now says he wanted to, but he never did.
***
After passing in nothing more than a blur, the movie ended near midnight, and we left the theater. Steph turned to me. “Is it okay if Bill takes you home?” She asked.
He looked at me from his place at my side, as though hoping I would say yes.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” I replied. Anything not to be in the racecar again. And I was desperate to spend more time with the older blonde.
“I’m parked over here,” he replied, a hint of excitement in his voice as he motioned to a nearby row of cars. We broke off from the group and walked where he led.
I half followed him to the dark colored Honda, and he held the passenger door open for me. This was another thing I would typically argue with, but had no desire to. He was so cute as he did it, and looked so happy about being able to, I didn’t want to shatter that. He rounded the car and took the driver’s seat. “You want ice cream?” He asked as he started the car.
“Actually, yes please,” I replied, suddenly craving the sweet.
“Okay,” he said as he pulled out of the space and headed back toward Route 15. We talked about simple things, like our shared taste in movies and music. He sighed as we approached Jefferson Dairy. “It’s closed,” he said, disappointed.
“That’s okay,” I replied as we continued straight into an area I thought I knew. That thought turned out to be wrong, and made us both lost. We followed the unknown road, not really caring that we didn’t even have the slightest idea where we were. We were having fun just talking. Unfortunately, he took a random turn that brought us back to Route 15 by sheer dumb luck. I directed him back to my house, with a bit of disappointment that the night was coming to a close. I hadn’t had that much fun in years, literally.
“I’ll talk to you in the morning?” I asked, hoping, as we turned into my driveway.
“I hope so,” he replied as he stopped the car.
I smiled, and he did the same. “Good night,” I said, reluctantly opening the car door and stepping out.
“Good night,” he replied, his voice full of warmth.
I smiled again as I let myself into my house. Little did I know at the end of that night, or early that morning (it was 1:30 when I finally got home), I found it impossible to wait to talk to him, even just hours later. I would give into temptation at 9:00 a.m. after two torturous hours of being awake. After that I would spend nearly every day with him at some point or another.
And now, thinking of it, I still haven’t gotten that ice cream…
By: Ashley Green
Looking back, I really have no idea why I was so nervous that night. It really was no big deal, but still I made it out to be one. Yes me; the one who will roll out of bed to go to school, the one who never cared what she looked like, the one who thought appearance was the last thing someone should be attracted to. I spent two hours getting ready that night. Two hours. What happened to me?
It was a warm September Friday night, the first week of the new school year. For once, I had plans. And even less likely in my often boring life, I was both nervous and excited about those plans. The two hours I had spent ‘prepping’ for the evening seemed like so much less, and, yet, it was still barely enough time. My nails had been painted the day before, a small sign of my desire to look perfect, especially considering how rarely I painted them. And then, to make it even stranger, I was in heels. I mean, I love dressing up, but I NEVER wear heels with blue jeans, let alone out somewhere they were not required. But I knew he was five foot eleven inches, and my measly five foot four inches would not suffice. So my long dark-blue, perfect-fit jeans were complimented by the four inch sandal-heels I had bought for my Tennessee trip the previous summer. I grabbed my favorite black lace tank-top out of my closet and pulled it on as my cell phone beeped at me; a text message from one of my friends who had set this whole event up. “On my way” was all the message said.
“Great…” I mumbled into the empty house. I dropped the phone into my purse with a heavy sigh. That meant I had twenty minutes, at most, to finish getting ready. I grabbed my makeup out of the drawer, laughing slightly at the fact the eyeliner was still in its store wrappings. I had bought it two months earlier ‘just in case.’ Carefully, I began the precise art of makeup application as my flat iron warmed itself. I know my hair is naturally straight; but that single wave in my hair needed to be gone. That, and straightening my hair had a habit of bringing the red dye in my hair to its brightest color. Once the eyeliner and silver-grey eye shadow was perfect, I ran the iron through my hair, slipped the long silver earrings into my first hole, and looked at myself in my mother’s full length mirror. Perfect myspace picture. I giggled to myself as I heard a car horn outside. I ran into my room, as best I could in heels, threw my makeup into my purse (because I knew I would touch it up at least twice) and left.
Once I sat in the blonde’s car, my nerves grew even more. “Can you tell I’m trying?” I asked her, even before hello.
“You look fine,” She replied simply, and pulled out of my driveway.
***
The next two hours became a blur. I know we returned to Michelle, the blonde’s, house. I went on her computer to find a message from him, the third I had ever received, complete with his phone number. Michelle’s friend / date for the night, Justin, showed up; Steph, the other culprit in this set up, and her boyfriend Joe were running a little late, but arrived soon enough, and we left to go see our undecided movie. We were all driven down to Rockaway Theater by the would-be-racecar driver Joe, who came complete with mumblings to other drivers and all.
The loud car ride at 75 mph down Route 15 got my mind off my nerves, until, he called Joe, or maybe Joe called him; but either way, he was definitely on the phone with the madman behind the wheel. My nerves jumped back; here I was, 10 minutes from meeting my blind date. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. It helped just enough to put the nervous, shy part of me aside, and remind me I needed to be myself.
As we pulled into the parking lot, excitement filled me. We left the car and began to walk toward the mass of people at the theater entrance. My eyes scanned the crowd as I looked looking for the long blonde hair and glasses he possessed. I had seen a picture of him, and dubbed him ‘emonerdysexyness’ in conversation with my friends.
Suddenly, with an almost vampire-like speed, he was beside me. “Hey,” he said to the mostly unfamiliar group.
Everyone replied with their hellos and introductions. I waited until last, and waved, slightly awkward. “I’m Ashley.”
He smiled with a similarly anxious look. He quickly scanned my appearance before replying, “I’m Bill.”
I grinned. “I figured,” I responded, causing him to smirk. I vaguely recognized him from somewhere at the start, yet it would be two months before I learned where; he had been the boy, five years earlier, who I had seen and thought was cute at the roller rink. He was also the boy at Hobby Town I found adorable when there with my mother one day. Weird huh?
Once in the theater, the group stopped. “So what are we seeing?” Steph asked us.
We all glanced up at the movie listings. “Halloween?” Joe suggested.
I sighed. I had expected that suggestion from someone. “Sixteen,” I said bluntly, pointing at Justin and then myself. “R means 17, and they ID everyone.”
The argument endured for a few minutes, a jumbled mess in the already loud room, before The Simpsons Movie was decided upon, and we finally got in line. “I’ll get your ticket,” Bill told me as we neared the front of the line.
“Are you sure?” I asked. I have always hated when people do that, well had always hated until just after that night, when I learned it wasn’t worth arguing it anymore.
“Of course,” he replied as we became next in line.
I smiled. For some reason, I didn’t argue as I normally would have.
The tickets were bought, the theater was found, and I sat contently between Bill and Michelle, hoping silently he would put his arm around me, or move to hold my hand. He now says he wanted to, but he never did.
***
After passing in nothing more than a blur, the movie ended near midnight, and we left the theater. Steph turned to me. “Is it okay if Bill takes you home?” She asked.
He looked at me from his place at my side, as though hoping I would say yes.
“Yeah, it’s fine,” I replied. Anything not to be in the racecar again. And I was desperate to spend more time with the older blonde.
“I’m parked over here,” he replied, a hint of excitement in his voice as he motioned to a nearby row of cars. We broke off from the group and walked where he led.
I half followed him to the dark colored Honda, and he held the passenger door open for me. This was another thing I would typically argue with, but had no desire to. He was so cute as he did it, and looked so happy about being able to, I didn’t want to shatter that. He rounded the car and took the driver’s seat. “You want ice cream?” He asked as he started the car.
“Actually, yes please,” I replied, suddenly craving the sweet.
“Okay,” he said as he pulled out of the space and headed back toward Route 15. We talked about simple things, like our shared taste in movies and music. He sighed as we approached Jefferson Dairy. “It’s closed,” he said, disappointed.
“That’s okay,” I replied as we continued straight into an area I thought I knew. That thought turned out to be wrong, and made us both lost. We followed the unknown road, not really caring that we didn’t even have the slightest idea where we were. We were having fun just talking. Unfortunately, he took a random turn that brought us back to Route 15 by sheer dumb luck. I directed him back to my house, with a bit of disappointment that the night was coming to a close. I hadn’t had that much fun in years, literally.
“I’ll talk to you in the morning?” I asked, hoping, as we turned into my driveway.
“I hope so,” he replied as he stopped the car.
I smiled, and he did the same. “Good night,” I said, reluctantly opening the car door and stepping out.
“Good night,” he replied, his voice full of warmth.
I smiled again as I let myself into my house. Little did I know at the end of that night, or early that morning (it was 1:30 when I finally got home), I found it impossible to wait to talk to him, even just hours later. I would give into temptation at 9:00 a.m. after two torturous hours of being awake. After that I would spend nearly every day with him at some point or another.
And now, thinking of it, I still haven’t gotten that ice cream…
Jan 18, 2008
Streaming Thoughts on Art
Streaming Thoughts on Art
When I was six, fine art meant anything from first grade art class that made it onto the fridge, or got an A+ grade, something which was basically handed out. You could draw a tree with stick figure people, ‘V’ shaped birds, and there was an A and a fridge worthy drawing. And then art class turned from drawing to pottery, or so they called the clay bowls we made, mixing colors together to make ‘marble’ colors for mom’s kitchen, where the palm sized bowl still holds odds and ends. And there was painting, where smocks of dad’s old shirts were a requirement.
But then, everything changed. The always A work became B; with a try harder note. The stick figure people needed clothing, emotions, and real bodies. The birds needed feathers and bodies. The trees needed leaves. You’re A+ palm sized bowl became a C and ‘bigger next time.’ The marble colors became ‘one color only, please.’ Less work became fridge worthy and A+ ‘Great Work’ and your sloppy name; instead, magnets holding nothing.
I learned that ‘Great Work’ was never really true, and, as years passed, they became less predominant. That jump from first to second grade and beyond made art less fun. My most complex bird is still that ‘V’ in the distance, houses still uneven.
Today, I refuse to take art. I color out of the lines; I make a mess when I paint, still in dad’s old shirts; I draw stick figure people and V birds, but now, never for a grade. For friends instead, to brighten their day with a left-handed, childish, sloppy, uneven house, cloud like tree, stick figure friends, and intentionally misspelled ‘Feel Better’ (Feel Betur) or Happy Birthday (Hapee Birfday). That jump from childhood art many people make to ‘quality’ art never was something I took; and I intend to keep my childish fridge-worthy fine art, ‘V’ shaped birds and all.
Fine art means something different now then it did years ago. Rather than grades or comments, applause grades me. Not one person, many. Fine art is nine months of learning and practice, an hour a week, maybe less. My sport, because yes, my art is also my sport; my sport is practiced only once a week, school weeks only, to have one chance, just one presentation. My art can’t be redone if I don’t like it. Think about that. Think of the time painting and writing is given. Think of my time, less than two days worth of time for me. At least a month for painting, two for writing. My art is counted in hours of practice, not days of work; a single mistake-less performance, graded by applause. And some people say dance isn’t an art.
******
soon to be a Calliope Submission, any comments on it?
When I was six, fine art meant anything from first grade art class that made it onto the fridge, or got an A+ grade, something which was basically handed out. You could draw a tree with stick figure people, ‘V’ shaped birds, and there was an A and a fridge worthy drawing. And then art class turned from drawing to pottery, or so they called the clay bowls we made, mixing colors together to make ‘marble’ colors for mom’s kitchen, where the palm sized bowl still holds odds and ends. And there was painting, where smocks of dad’s old shirts were a requirement.
But then, everything changed. The always A work became B; with a try harder note. The stick figure people needed clothing, emotions, and real bodies. The birds needed feathers and bodies. The trees needed leaves. You’re A+ palm sized bowl became a C and ‘bigger next time.’ The marble colors became ‘one color only, please.’ Less work became fridge worthy and A+ ‘Great Work’ and your sloppy name; instead, magnets holding nothing.
I learned that ‘Great Work’ was never really true, and, as years passed, they became less predominant. That jump from first to second grade and beyond made art less fun. My most complex bird is still that ‘V’ in the distance, houses still uneven.
Today, I refuse to take art. I color out of the lines; I make a mess when I paint, still in dad’s old shirts; I draw stick figure people and V birds, but now, never for a grade. For friends instead, to brighten their day with a left-handed, childish, sloppy, uneven house, cloud like tree, stick figure friends, and intentionally misspelled ‘Feel Better’ (Feel Betur) or Happy Birthday (Hapee Birfday). That jump from childhood art many people make to ‘quality’ art never was something I took; and I intend to keep my childish fridge-worthy fine art, ‘V’ shaped birds and all.
Fine art means something different now then it did years ago. Rather than grades or comments, applause grades me. Not one person, many. Fine art is nine months of learning and practice, an hour a week, maybe less. My sport, because yes, my art is also my sport; my sport is practiced only once a week, school weeks only, to have one chance, just one presentation. My art can’t be redone if I don’t like it. Think about that. Think of the time painting and writing is given. Think of my time, less than two days worth of time for me. At least a month for painting, two for writing. My art is counted in hours of practice, not days of work; a single mistake-less performance, graded by applause. And some people say dance isn’t an art.
******
soon to be a Calliope Submission, any comments on it?
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