Each star (*) is a new character thing....
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*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 19, 2008
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.”
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