_ _ 5

"Hi, I'm Jill235," she said trembling.

"Hi Jill," echoed through the room.

 "…And I'm different." She mumbled.

She sat down on the plastic blue chair which was about half way in the circle.

"Thank you 235, is it ok if I call you 235?" the instructor asked politely. Jill235 nodded.

"Go ahead," said the instructor gesturing to the next person in the circle.

"Hi," he said in an annoyed voice. "I'm Jake205, and I'm different." 

"Very good 205, the first step is admitting it," the instructor said, very pleased.

"Remember, it's not your fault that you are defects.  A manufacturing error is not the fault of the product."

"Hi," the next person began, "I'm Joe305."

"305?" asked the instructor. "You're from the northern regions?" 

Joe305 nodded.

So the meeting went on.

"Who wants to share an experience?" asked the instructor after every one in the circle introduced themselves. A quiet small boy, probably the youngest in the group, raised his hand.

"Yes, Jamie245, tell us when you first knew you were different," the instructor lingered over the last word.

"Well," he said nervously, "during my first year in the skills development facility. I was working on my writing skills with all the other children who were chosen to work on this skill. And the skills development researcher came in and said that we must write about our favorite animal. And I asked why. And he just said that it's on the schedule. And I just asked why. Then before I knew it they took me, gave me new cloths with the number 5 on them,"

He broke down in tears.

"I was clever, I knew what it meant," he said with tears in his eyes. 

"It meant I was a defect, it means that I am an error, a mistake." His voice turned from sad to violet. "And you know what? That's what we all are. Broken toys, a doll without a hand, a toy car without a wheel, scratches on an otherwise perfect painting. That's all we are, broken."

DIENER, SAM. Different. N.d. Photograph. Stuff for Success. Web.

Unforgettable call

My husband told me that he is bringing them home after school so I decided to make them an afternoon snack.  As I was making them a snack, I heard a knock on the door. Surprisingly, it was my mom. She lives two hours away from my town so seeing her was a lovely surprise. I opened the door, we said hello to each other and I felt that she wasn’t her self. I asked her if everything was ok. She took a deep breath and said, “We need to talk darling.” I obviously thought of the worst due to my female genes.  The first thing that came to mind was if she was sick or if something happened to dad. I tried my best to look calm and show that if she ever needed to talk, I would be there for her. It’s funny how as I grew up all the things that my mom used to do for me are now the other way around. She took me into my bedroom and told me to sit down.

“Darling, you know I will always be here for you no matter what, right?” “Mom, what is it?” There was a sudden pause as my mother looked me in the eyes and said, “you’re adopted.” I never knew that two simple words could physically affect my body. I felt as if I was under water in a pool and all I could hear was the calm and still sound that the water gives off. My mom put a piece of paper in my hand and said, “This is your real mother’s number.” I was speechless. No matter how hard I tried, no words came out, just tears. My mother told me she loves me and left the house. I sat on my bed with the paper in my hand and looked at it with tears running down my face not knowing what to think. The kids came home and I quickly washed my face and went back into the kitchen.

As I was making food my son saw me crying and asked, “Why are you crying mom?” I laughed, and told him it was just the onions and he said, “Ok cry baby.”  Several days passed and that simple piece of paper was all I thought about. It didn’t seem possible that there was someone out there that was my real mother and I didn’t know about it. So much irritation and puzzlement went through my head.

One day I built the guts to call. I walked into my room, opened the door, and took the piece of paper out from my drawer. I took the phone and paused to think what I would say when she answered. How she would react. All these questions made me more tense and nervous. I took a deep breath, dialed the number, and put the phone to my ear. “Ring ring,” I had chills running through my body from head to toe. I sat there and waited for her to answer. “Hello, you have reached the answering machine, please leave a message at the beep…. BEEP.” Every part of my body went into shock. I never took to account that she wouldn’t answer. Took a breath for the longest two seconds of my life and said, “He-hello, I’m your daughter…Call me.” 

"Home Alone." Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 12 Sept. 2013. Web. 09 Dec. 2013. 

                   

                   "Home Alone." Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 12 Sept. 2013. Web. 09 Dec. 2013. 

                   

A Cup of Water

All I wanted was a cup of water. A cup full of water. I didn't enjoy  seeing people glare and make faces at me while I stood up to get it. They were so rude to me as if I did something outrageous. Something so dangerous that has never been done before been done. I think that they are all crazy. Just like every old person in this room. As I started to make my way to my  destination, people's expressions started  to change. They were horrified by what they saw. Some even tried to warn me by yelling with despair in their voices. Others tried to hold me back. But I wasn't going to let a few ugly faces and yells stop me from getting what I wanted. My throat started to burn so I quickened walked faster to relive the pain. All I could think of was that  every step got me closer to an ice-cold cup of water. The other passengers on the plane made  hurtful comments and I ignored them. If only I would have listened to their comments, I would still be alive today. If only I would have let them stop me from  heading towards that water fountain, I wouldn't have gotten a bacterial infection, and would have made it to my  daughter's wedding. If only I would of listened.

Nes, Alique Van. Impacts of Climate Change on Water Supply and Health. Digital image.IWRM as a Tool for Adaptation to Climate Change. Www.thewaterchannel.tv, n.d. Web. 09 Dec. 2013.

The Mind Trap

I look around me, how did I end up in the midst of these scary, pale green looking creatures, with a big, heavy, metal gun in my hand? All this is so different from playing behind that nice, large computer screen operating the same gun with the remote control. Is this real? Was I really pulled into the screen, or was the screen pulled into my mind?

I hate this game. I never even noticed these creatures had such long, sharp, yellow, and bloody teeth. This scenery is making me sick.

And yet, it is so addictive, or should I say, was so addictive. Even at my young age, I find it so entertaining to shoot zombies, aliens, strange creatures, kill people with tanks and guns, and to be a superhero. When I get out of this world, if I get out of this world, I will never lay my hands on the remote that led me into this mess; it’s too dangerous.

Why am I thinking of what I would do when I get back? I must stay focused. For now, I must think of these creatures around me, and how to escape from them. The air is starting to feel cold and dark. A thick, heavy fog approaches, and I realize the creatures have glowing red eyes when they are within it. Suddenly, I feel even more terrified, my heart is beginning to race, and I am beginning to doubt myself, thinking I can’t escape them. What if I die with the strike of one sharp, painful claw? Will I get another life, like when I was playing on the large, 22 inch computer screen around twenty minutes ago? I never noticed how violent this game was before I ended up here.

But why did I end up here? What did I do wrong? Everyone plays this game when they have the chance, why am I any different?

This must be a sign from God. Mom always tells me that God has blessed us with the ability to think and understand, and it would be such a waste to spend our time, money, and brains on these silly computer games, full of violence and killing. Have I misused God’s blessings? I am beginning to understand now, and…WAIT, I still need to get out of here!

As the creatures crawl closer to me, a number of them even on me, I notice something strong bugging my left eye. I turn around, and I see a small ray of light from the distance. Is this some kind of illusion? Is this a dream? Where did it come from? I kick the creatures creeping up my legs, lift up my gun, and attempt to shoot one of the creatures out of my way. Although I miss its head, because the gun is bigger and heavier than I am, I still manage to shoot it in the leg, and it falls to the ground. I look at it one last time, before it vanishes into thin air, and I begin running towards the light. I am running as fast as I can; trying to move my frozen legs. The suit I am wearing is so heavy; it is almost impossible to walk with. I can hear the creatures going crazy behind me, but I can’t take the risk and look back, they will get me if I do. The closer I get to the light, the brighter it becomes, and the thick, choking fog slowly vanishes.

Could this light be…the exit? I must try to reach it; I can’t afford to stay here any longer. I want to see my family again, and I promise I’ll listen to my mom. I just hope I can reach it before these creatures catch up to me. Please, God, make this the exit, please. I promise I will do my chores. I will listen to mom, and I will be much more careful about the blessing which you have given me.

As I continue running towards the light, I turn around to see if the creatures are still on my trail, but they are not. I stop, catch my breath, and look around me; the speck of light suddenly begins to soar towards the direction where the creatures are. This time, I do not follow it. Soon enough, the darkness returns. The creatures are all gone. There is no light. I am all alone.

Barrie, Krieg. Man Trapped in Computer. Digital image. GoodSalt. N.p., n.d. Web. 09 Dec. 2013.

Untitled

I had my black coffee cup in hand, soggy toasts in front of me, the quite hum of the coffee machine filling the empty pauses of the soft conversations filling the air, with the occasional clacking of cutlery, and a subtle smell of cigars. Sunday morning, the diner had big windows that overlooked the city below. Suits with no time, streams of red and white lights, the epitome of an inspirational place, but here I am. 88 stories in the air, the city skyline in front of me, the sun beams slowly crawling over its edge, and yet, nothing. I was in pursuit of a muse, or that’s what I convinced myself to believe. Cliché, that’s what all this is. My fingers have been hovering over the keyboard for over an hour, nothing. Everything that I wrote came out as a f***ed up poem. Something I kept erasing. I had enough of that crap. I knew from the moment I reluctantly decided to leave the warmth of my bed, to go eat some supposedly quality toasts in some billion dollar skyscraper, that the story wasn't going to end well. This wasn't me. I was looking for tragedy. A change, an escape.  So I shut my laptop and walked out. Coffee unfinished, toasts still soggy, clothes reeking of cigar smoke. My feet took me to the elevator; my fingers looked for the last story. The button lit. I wandered around until I found the staircase door, crisp morning air attacking my nostrils, burning my lungs, eyes closed, and eloquent strides towards the brink. It was all a blur, but it was calming. Then enveloped by a complete sense of calm, I found what I was looking for. I was in search of an ending, for my story.

Foggy Loop Skyline in B&W. 2010. Photograph. Chicago. By Doug Siefken. Web. <http://www.flickr.com/photos/siefken/5184707221/in/faves-29602190@N00/>.

The Bridge

          “Remember that bridge where we met? The one at the park?” I asked Leah.

          “I can’t believe that you even have to ask me that question; of course I remember it,” she replied.

          “Didn’t you ever wonder what happened to the park? Why it closed?” I asked

          “Well yeah, but I mean I’m sure it had its reasons,” she answered.

          “Yeah, I guess you’re right,” I replied to her in a quiet voice. About half an hour later Leah blurted out, “Do you think it would be alright if we went to the park?”

          “ Well yeah, but I mean, maybe you’re right, maybe there was a reason for the park to close,” I answered.

          “ Come on, I bet it’s not that bad,” she said as she got up. I got up after her and we left the house.

          We had walked for about five minutes when we finally reached the park. As we entered the park, we saw the bridge right ahead of us.

          “Look! That’s it! That’s the bridge!” She said in excitement. But something was different. The park wasn’t like it used to be. It seemed more like some kind of enchanted forest to me. The sound of the chirping birds, the water running under the bridge, the fresh air. I didn’t understand why the park was closed. Nothing seemed wrong with it.

          “ This place has not changed one bit,” Leah said to me. We only spent about ten minutes in the park.

          The next day at school Leah came up to me and asked, “Can we work on our project in the park today?”

          I stood silent for a few seconds, trying to understand what made her change her mind about the park, and then I answered, “Sure.”

          When the school bell rang, I went straight to my car and started to drive. When I got to the park, Leah was already there waiting with a big smile on her face. I got out of my car and walked into the park with Leah. The first thing that I saw as I walked in was the bridge, but something was different, I just didn’t know what. I stood by the entrance trying to figure it out. The bridge that I knew brought Leah and I together for a reason; it gave us memories. But all of those memories disappeared when the bridge collapsed.

Madidi. "The Old Bridge, Tollymore Forest Park." Panoramio. N.p., 25 July 2008. Web. 09 Dec. 2013.

"Bear" Bearton Julius

My father’s pipe was cherry wood. Its name was 1994 Bearton Julius, but he called it “Bear” because he didn’t really like the mouthful. He doesn’t like mouthfuls of anything. Except smoke, I guess.

            He smokes often. Every day, when I come home from school and wander into the living room, he’s sitting on his recliner, smoking the pipe idly. He’s looking at the sky out the window. It’s moments like these that I think he looks like a portrait. He’s still, the only movement being the smoke billowing out from the pipe in heavy little clouds. The sun melts into the room, onto a carpe. I sit there, watching him smoke. His fingers are gentle on the pipe; gentler on the pipe than anything else.

                “Daddy,” My voice is quiet, and he doesn’t look at me, but I know he’s listening. “Can you do it? Just once.”

                He’s still for a lifetime, but when he moves, the world  moves with him.

             He blows into the pipe and smoke erupts from it, twirling and dancing, lively and jubilant. White clouds become champagne bubbling; the smoke becomes elegance. I reach up, lean forward, and watch in awe. The smoke curls and caresses my fingers. It travels down my wrist, to my arm, and I feel it hot on my collarbone. It glides up my neck and brushes my cheek. It smells like fire and tobacco.

                I blow cold air at the cumulated smoke, and colors explode.

                The smoke is a galaxy of hues, from deep, painful blue to vibrant, breathtaking yellow. I reel back to get a better look, and the smoke follows close behind. It smolders red and screams purple. The smoke creates scenes for me, creates beautiful pictures. For a moment it’s stars in the sky, and slowly it becomes confetti. Eventually it becomes the ocean.

                My eyelids flutter closed, and I inhale deeply. When they reopen, the smoke has blinked out of existence. 

CITATION:

Porato, David. "Stock Photo: The Old Man Smoking Tobacco Pipe." Dreamstime. Dreamstime, 13 Oct. 2013. Web. 09 Dec. 2013.

The Climb

“I’m so exhausted,” I looked back at Nadine. My hands and legs were smeared with dirt and filth from the endless hike up the mountain. I was feeling pain in every part of my body. My back started aching, carrying the heavy animal of some sort I did not recognize. Before the journey, Nadine had told me she thought it was a donkey. We both had such “donkeys” on our backs. I wanted to stop, but every time I tried, our owner hit me with a stick, which just exacerbated the pain flowing throughout me. The “donkeys” were socializing with each other while Nadine and I felt like we weren’t going to make it through the rest of the day. All our negative vibes were put into the looks we gave the creatures. They never cared about how we felt, neither did our owners. They always gave little square papers with numbers on them to our owners and then got on our backs. I never knew what it was for, but for some reason it made me really angry.

We finally reached the top of the mountain, the whole ride up, however, the “donkeys” were so loud and making the journey that much worse for me, and Nadine. The “donkeys” and many other creatures of whom I nor Nadine recognized, were exploring the top of the mountain. All we could do was rest before we had to go back down. My knees were a mess of blood and dirt but it was too hard for me to get up on my hind legs to lick them clean. Nadine looked worse. She was all cut up on her legs and she had huge open wounds on her back. I wasn’t entirely sure she would make it.

After about forty-five minutes, Nadine and I started back down the mountain with our creatures on our backs. Going down was always the hardest for us, especially with all the extra weight and pain. We never understood how we had to be the ones to carry them up. Why couldn’t they just carry themselves up?

Nadine stopped walking. I gave her a “why-did-you-stop-walking-they-will-yell-at-us” look. She just stared back at me and gave me a small nod and a smile. I realized what she was doing. I started to cry. Our owner came over and hit her, right smack on her big, gaping wound. I couldn’t bare to watch, I turned the other way. When it was all over, I saw her there lying on the floor with closed eyes in a pool of blood. I lost my best friend that day, and I don’t know how I’d be able to make another journey without her, again.

"Donkey Rides." Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 25 Feb. 2013. Web. 09 Dec. 2013.

The Black Sports car

While biking to Javi’s house a small black sports car cut the road, resulting me to brake and fly over a meter forwards. Cursing at him, the driver stopped further down the road. A tall blond man in a suit stepped out of the car.

 “What’s the problem here?” asked the man.

“You cut the road! If I didn’t break I would have biked straight into your damn car!” I answered.

 “Well kid that is not my problem, maybe you should watch out next time,” answered the man in an arrogant way.

The man stepped into his car and left. I pick up my bike and continued my journey to Javi's house. When I finally got to his house I saw the small black sports car parked in the driveway, and stepping out of the car was that tall blond man.  Now I find myself face to face with the blond man.

                                  

"Bugatti Veyron." Wikipedia. Wikimedia Foundation, 12 July 2013. Web. 09 Dec. 2013.