It's like Ways To Feel Inadequate 101.
Neverending boredom and tedious work.
Uncountable letdowns and broken promises.
I'll never quite match up to those others that I see.
Bulky sweaters are so more my thing.
Is it the dryer or is it just me?
The canoe rocked, slamming into the jagged rocks
And I shot a mock-agitated look over my shoulder
But instead, laughed as he shrugged, and without hesitation
Stepped into the knee-deep water
And shoved me farther toward shore, the rocks grating violently against the fragile canoe bottom
Quickly, I followed- balancing precariously on the glistening rocks
And with practiced deftness, heaved our packs over the thwarts
Breathlessly depositing them in the muddy grass
He flipped the canoe, and lifted the bow, his arms straining impatiently under the weight
As I hurriedly took my place; nodded as he released the bow
The pressure settling on my collarbones
I pressed my wrists against the gunwales, finding the center of balance
And took a quick, confident step toward the narrow path
That would lead me blindly to the next lake
A mere puddle to be overcome.
The rain drops slide silently down the dark window as I trace their path with my fingers. My mother, on my cell phone, is complaining quietly to her mother, pretending I can�t hear. Just as I am pretending that I do not. The hair on my arms is prickling, like I�m cold. But I�m not. I rub at the goose bumps in a hopeless attempt to flatten them back against my skin; the only physical evidence that I�m uncomfortable. With a click, my mother hangs up the cell phone, and hands it back to me, apologizing for using my minutes. I shrug and look wistfully out into the night. I know where we�re headed. I ialso know how badly I want to stay away. I feel a bit of moisture behind my eyes, and know that I could start crying if I wanted to. I don�t want to. My mother eyes me worriedly and tells me that she knows it�s unfair for her to be so angry in front of me. I shrug again. She always has. I don�t care. It�s better than being home. Where I wander slowly around in small circles, looking for a place to be. and give up, laying face down on the living room couch, and hoping that no one comes in. No one does. My eyes trace over the twentieth anniversary cards lining the mantle, and I sigh inwardly. It really makes me wonder. I wrap my arms more tightly around myself, and burrow my face farther into the pillows. Closing my eyes, wetness leaking out just around the corners, I try to sleep. The voices one room over, shouting at one another, slamming doors, angry footsteps. I continue to pretend I don't exist.
I was browsing through the folder titled "Writings" on my hard drive and came across a bunch of things I thought I'd post here. Be forewarned that I am horrible at ending short stories. Well, these aren't really short stories, they're more like sketches- the first two are mainly based on reality (but not totally) and the third one... well, isn't. I wrote it for Kiwibox.com, and online zine for which I am a reporter. The more I read it, the less I like it. Anyway.
Write an essay about a specific memory you have from your childhood. It must incorporate some of the different aspects of the 80s that we have been studying in class. Must be at least 4 pages, double spaced, in size 12 text.
Sometimes I wonder where my teachers come up with their assignments. Honestly, do they sit down at their desk and think *Hmm� What could I possibly assign my students that would make their lives even more boring that usual�* Although, Ms. Gaffe sounded strangely excited about this essay. Maybe she just wants to snoop into her students� lives. Or try to analyze us further. I don�t know. I knew some quirky assignment like this was going to be popping up sometime soon. Why else would she have been forcing us to study 80s pop culture for the past week. Everything from music to world events. Sheesh, when she gets excited about a project, she really gets excited. I can�t even remember the 80s. I mean, sure, I was born then. 1986, to be exact. And sure, I remember things about when I was three years old. That was the year my younger cousin was born, and we moved to the other side of town. But do I remember watching episodes of My Little Pony, and listening to New Kids on the Block? Not even the slightest bit. My parents have never mentioned it to me either, which makes me think that I probably didn�t even like these famous 80s icons. So, why should Ms. Gaffe make me pretend to reminisce about the horrible bubble gum music, and the poorly animated cartoon characters?
I�m shuddering just thinking about it. Really, I am. My childhood was a truly ugly thing. I was such an ugly little kid, with a strange obsession with The Wizard of Oz (I�m not even going to mention my invisible friend, Dorothy.) and a chronic case of the terrible twos, that I wasn�t cured of until age five. I had an older brother who nick-named me �Trash-Trash� before I entered pre-school, and a dog that went neurotic as soon as I was brought home from the hospital. And barely a year after I was born, a younger sister was brought home, and a year after that, my second sister was born. I was awkward, shy, and would never let my mother out of my sight without throwing a wild tantrum first. Come to think of it, I�m surprised she survived those years. I was permanently attached to her hand. If she even tried to go out for dinner with my father, I�d sit on her foot, wrap my arms around her leg, and scream at the top of my lungs. She managed to detach herself in the end, but I always managed to delay their dinner by about half and hour. Maybe I should apologize to my mother one of these days. Or thank her for not leaving me at the side of the highway at the first chance. Now that I think about it, I was a monster.
So, is this what Ms. Gaffe is trying to cause? Does she want to me discover how horrid I was as a child? No, the more that I ponder the reasons behind this assignment, the more I realize that she probably visited some teachers� resource website, and picked an assignment suggestion at random. No imagination in that woman. None at all. Hmmph, and I need to recall a specific event to write about in detail. Nothing happened to me that was even remotely interesting enough to record on paper; I don�t think I want concrete evidence of how boring my childhood was.
The most exciting thing I can remember, is visiting the amusement park three hours away from my house, and even then I couldn�t go on any of the fun rides because I was only 3�11�, and you had to be four feet tall to go on the �big kid rides�. It was nice to be away from my two younger sisters for the day, though. It was just my parents, brother, and I all day. The little ones stayed at home with our housekeeper/nanny, Mary. I can remember that lady like I can remember my telephone number. She worked for us with sheer dedication from the time when my brother was born, until I was four and a half years old. It should have been longer. I answered the phone on the day she suddenly didn�t come to work for us. I was doing my best �Mommy impression,� and when the lady on the other line asked to speak to Nancy, I pretended I was her. She introduced herself as Debbie Koppas; I new her as Mary�s daughter. She began to sob, and told me that she�d found Mary less than an hour ago, in her car, in the garage, dead. She�d committed suicide. I dropped the phone, and sat down gracelessly upon the floor. My young mind not truly comprehending what I�d just been told. My mother walked in just at the moment that I hit the ground. She looked at me questioningly and silently picked up the discarded telephone. In a moment, her face was wearing an expression of shock, similar to my own. She gently hung up the telephone, and bent down to scoop me up into her arms. We cried together.
Heather pecked out the letters on her keyboard as best she could with her left hand. Her sixth grade teacher had apparently thought she was doing her class a favor by teaching them to touch type, but with an immobilized right hand, Heather wished she were more speedy at pecking out letters with on finger. She groaned as she readjuted the obnoxious sling which was- well, slung around her back, and chafing the side of her neck.
"Ugh," Heather muttered as she hit the backspace key three times consecutively, before letting her hand flop down onto her desk, and looking up at her computer screen.
MY LIFE AS IT STANDS
Well, Heather thought, at least she had a title now. Or a topic, or whatever. She slouched down in her leather office chair, and stuck her foot off to push off of the desk. With a little kick, she managed to spin around in the chair several times, before shoving her foot out again to catch the side of the desk, and stop facing the computer screen again. Heather wasn't even sure what she was trying to write about. This was the first day she'd really been able to think coherently since her accident. Those darn painkillers... Nobody had told her they were mild narcotics, and that she'd become really sleepy and have a kind of drunken way about her. Heather laughed, well, it had stopped the pain. All she really wanted to do now was to write an e-mail to her friends explaining exactly why she'd been out of school the past few days, and why they hadn't been able to reach her by the telephone all week.
She opened and close the fingers on her right hand a few times. Her entire right arm was immobilized because of a stupid broken collar bone, and her fingers were swelling from the lack of use.
"I'm going to be so weak once I can move this dumb limb again..." Heather muttered to herself as she started to type again.
Hey guys, sorry for the lack of contact. I've been a bit out of it for a few days, and that storm last week took down a telephone line; My phones have been out of use all week.
Heather paused again. Was that really what she wanted to say. No, not really. She wanted to express the sheer disappointment, and the anger she felt with herself. The entire track season would be gone by the time she regained use of her arm. And even if she could participate in the last few meets, she'd be so out of shape. Heather brought her left hand down with a smack onto the keyboard, causing a line of jibberish to appear after the beginnings of her e-mail. She hit the backspace key several times again before, beginning to peck out the letters.
Imagine if you can, me, sitting around all day watching "The Price is Right" and reruns of 80s sitcoms. Frightening thought? Yea, my sentiments exactly. My shoulder hurts, my arm is immobile, and any muscle I once had in the right half of my body has turned to mush. Not quite the standard picture of me is it?
No, it was certainly not the normal picture. Heather tried to remember a day in the past year when she hadn't run at least a mile. Usually it was more than three. Heather checked the date on her watch. She still had 25 days left until the orthepedic surgeon had said she could run. It was nearly a whole month. If it weren't for that eighth hurdle, she'd still have her track season. Heather pursed her lips angrily. It really was her own fault. If she hadn't tucked her left leg underneath her when she went over the eighth hurdle... If she'd only worked harder on her form and gotten the leg to bend sideways... With a huff, Heather, pictured herself triping over that eighth hurdle, and falling onto her shoulder onto the rubber track. She slammed her fist down onto the keyboard once again and didn't even bother to erase the stray letters that appeared before typing a closing and sending the e-mail off.
She came to her senses just as the candle hit the bed in her father's room. Fifteen- year old Holly Byers had poured gasoline over the bed, and on some portions of the floor just moments earlier. The brightly colored quilt covering the bed burst into flames immediately; and the fire spread quickly, soon it encased the whole of the bed. Holly couldn't believe what she was seeing, couldn't believe what she'd just done, and fled the room in a state of panic. She was out the front door in a blink of an eye, and running down the street to the nearest payphone.
Holly quickly dialed 911 and when the operator responded, she stammered, "My-my h-ouse is on f-f-fi-- on fire." She gave her address and hung up quickly, minutes later hearing a fire truck round her corner. But Holly just sat curled up in the phone booth, clutching her knees to her chest and recalling the past few months events.
--
It was Holly's birthday, and she and her mother were sitting at the large oak table in the kitchen with a beautiful homemade cake sitting in front of them. Holly had been about the cut the first piece when the phone rang. Assuming it to be Mr. Byers, Mrs. Byers ran to answer it. Holly also ran to grab the other phone. Her father's plane was to be arriving any moment from Miami, where Mr. Byers had been on a business trip all week. Holly picked up the phone and eavesdropped on the conversation, hoping to hear when her father would be getting in.
Hello, Frank?" Came an unknown voice.
"No, this is his wife. Can I help you?" Mrs. Byers replied
"His what? Wife? Excuse me, but you must be joking," the stranger sounded exasperated.
"No, I'm quite serious. I'm Frank's wife, Chelsea," Mrs. Byers said with an annoyed tone to her voice.
"Frank isn't married. I've just spent the entire week with him. He told me his plane landed at 5:30 and to call at 6. I would know if he had a wife," the woman on the other line insisted.
"Who is this?" Mrs. Byers demanded.
Holly didn't bother listening to the rest of the conversation. She dropped the cordless phone with a clank on the table, and a moment later the front door opened and Mr. Byers stepped into the room.
Holly heard her mother say, "Just hang on one moment please," and sat the phone down before entering the front hall.
Holly darted to the living room and watched her father greet her mother by leaning down to kiss her cheek. But Mrs. Byers turned away and gazed at him with narrowed eyes.
"You have a phone call, Frank," she said calmly. "Adrienne is on the line."
Mr. Byers went pale and managed to stutter, "Chelsea, I can explain. Adrienne is a... an associate of mine. She and I had... had a conference in Miami this week."
Mrs. Byers just nodded mutely, her piercing stare never leaving his face. "You and I both know that's not true. Nowhere near the truth. You should probably also know that I want a divorce; and soon."
That's when Holly collapsed against the living room wall. Mr. Byers rushed to her, but Mrs. Byers shoved him out of the way, and proceeded to comfort her daughter.
--
That had been three months ago, and over those three months several things had happened. The first was that Mr. and Mrs. Byers were immediately separated. A divorce was in progress. The second was that Mrs. Byers' anger had quickly turned into sadness, which in turn had progressed into depression. Holly's shock however, had altered into anger. Extreme anger. When it was announced that she'd be spending half the week at her father's new home with Adrienne and her father, and half of the week with her mother, Holly swore to herself that she'd seek revenge on her father for ruining their family.
So here she was sitting in a phone booth, hiding from the men that were saving her house, hiding from the fact that she'd just set ablaze the bed in which Frank and Adrienne shared each night, hiding from the fact that she'd just done something terrible. Holly stayed there for an hour or so. She was reluctant to face reality. She told herself over and over that it didn't happen, or that the fire wasn't her fault. She didn't really believe it was her fault anyway; it had been her father that ruined her life. She couldn't be to blame. It was his mistake, all his fault. It wasn't these thoughts that eventually helped her emerge from her hiding spot however. It was a face in the glass above her. Looking down at her from outside the phone booth was a stranger's face.
"Is this occupied?" he asked curiously.
Holly shook her head stiffly, and bolted out the booth and back down the street, towards her house. Her father's room received by far the worst damage. As Holly stood on the lawn, staring up at the gaping black hole that used to be her father's room, she felt a firm hand on her shoulder. She spun around to gaze into her father's dark eyes, which seemed to be searching her soul.
"Where've you been, Holly?"
"Just up the street there," Holly responded with a gesture towards the corner she'd been at.
"Did you report this fire?" Mr. Byers asked severely.
"Yes," Holly answered.
"Do you know who started this fire?"
Holly didn't even pause before answering, "Yes."
Her father seemed surprised at this response, and continued on with his questions. "Then who started it?"
Once again Holly didn't pause with her reply. "You did," she said calmly.
Whatever answer Frank was expecting, this wasn't it. "I started it? Explain that to me young lady. I've been at the office since 8:00 this morning."
"You stated the fire three months ago. No, it was more than that. It was March when you started all those 'business' trips, right? You started that fire seven months ago when you started seeing, Ayy-dree-ay nuh," Holly stretched out the word sarcastically and paused. "I may have lit the candle that started the flames going, but you started the fire." Holly glared at her father, her eyes flashing.
Frank just stared back, too stunned to speak. After a moment of icy silence, he turned away, climbed into his car, and sped down the street. Holly walked the mile to her mother's house, and as soon as she entered the door, she was met with a hug.
"Your father just called, Holly," Chelsea said calmly. "I can't believe you'd do something so stupid! Someone could have been hurt."
Holly acknowledged this, and looked up at her mother. "I'm sorry," she whispered.
Chelsea nodded and continued, "He said he won't be pressing charges, but he does want you to help pay for the damages." Holly nodded. Her mother had only one more thing to say, "He said I can have the custody."
Holly's arms tightened around her mother, and for the first time in several months, she felt that maybe things would be all right.
Ageless spanning the years
Yet fades in other's minds
Forgotten but the meaning
The truth hidden in the words
Limply completing the circuit
The connection will cease to be made
Another down
Yet more will follow
A voice rings through the air
Clear and crisp, a unique tone
Without a regard to her surroundings,
She belts out her song, unafraid
As the last note fades away,
A hint of a flush graces her cheeks
With quick bow, she shuffles off the stage,
The applause ringing in her ears
Congratulations, praise, and cheers
They are the sounds she�s heard a million times
Short hugs, pats on the back, enormous smiles
It all becomes ceaseless, ad nauseam
The constant praise dissapates
Her performance is forgotten
But still her voice can be heard
Cutting through any awkward silence- a smile upon her face
battles in my mind
pointless questions
hopeless answers
writhing and weaving
in and out
tearing me apart
no more beginnings
the middle is gone
it's the end of the end
and it's all over now
Tears flowing downward
in devastated hopeless drops
making me vulnerable until
I can stop
caught in the act
of showing my inner self
I bottle up those emotions
again until they burst back out
Aralei ran silently through the field, puddles of mud staining her bare feet. The baskets of pale plump tubers bumping into her sore legs, causing more bruises, as she sprinted. Her arms strained with the load she carried so quickly past the rows of workers, just finishing thier days work. The heat of midday would soon arrive and no worker wanted to be caught still in the fields at that time.
Dumping out her baskets onto a slowly moving conveyer belt, Aralei sighed with relief. She was first to finish today, there would be no reprimand for working slowly and leisurely. Not today at least.
The line of workers slowly began to form behind her as she guided her tubers through the cleansing system into the processing machine. Finally, they were packaged and she could start her trek back home. But first, she went to the supervisors office with her crate of today's crops. Carefully maneuvering her hands and knee to support the crate, she pressed the intercom button outside the supervisor's door. Almost immediately a man's face appeared on the screen in front of Aralei; a serious frowning sort of face that always wore an expression that demanded respect.
"Done already are you? Well, bring them in," he grunted shortly, then the screen went blank. Momentarily, there was a sharp buzzing sound and the door lock clicked open, allowing Aralei to push it open with her foot and step into the quiet room.
"Name?"
"Aralei Marsh"
The supervisor glanced up at Aralei over his small oblong shaped glasses. "A bit young to be working in the fields aren't we?"
"I get the job done just fine, thank you," Aralei replied with a touch of testiness.
"Mmph," was all the reply she got to that remark. "Marsh, Marsh. Ah ha, here we are. 'Aralei Marsh, born 121 f.c. , age at time of hiring: 13, current age: 15, age at which contract expires: 16.' Well, everything seems to be in order. Put the produce over there," the man recited as he gestured towards a small, square black door in the wall.
Aralei followed his directions and she lifted the crate and placed it on the stone floor inside the door. After shutting the door, she pressed in her key number on a small panel beside the door and listened as the crate was shipped out to stores.
"Here is your pay," the man said when Aralei turned back toward him. She took the offered money and stashed it in her pocket.
"Thank you," she said as she spun around and walked up to a different door than she had entered. This door was green and had yet another panel next to it where she typed her key number again. The door opened and she found herself in a familiar locavator. The door closed as suddenly as it had opened and Aralei found herself feeling the familiar sensation of instantaneous travel. A loud click was heard and she was miraclously in front of her own quartering, miles away. Clutching the money in her pocket, she thrust open the heavy old fashioned wooden doors of her quartering and stepped inside.
Nobody noticed when she came in; they never did. The young ones were whining, the caregivers were dealing with them and the landlord, as usual, was nowhere in sight. Aralei ignored them, as they did her, and walked up the rickety stairs to her own room. It was small, dark and dusty, but it got the job done. Aralei blinked a few times after opening the door, and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark atmosphere. Carefully, she slipped of her scuffed shoes and laid them on a muddy grey rug next to the door. Aralei curled her legs up underneath her as she sat down on her thin mattress supported by wobbly wooden slats. Her life was the same as it had always been. Quiet, calm, repetitive, and lonely. Tears drifted silently out of her squinted eyes. No family, no friends; she was a solitary, scared young girl who had no happy memories in her past. It was life as usual for Aralei Marsh.
