My Life in 50 Words

Began in Texas

though quickly moved

New Mexico 

baby boy born 

another came by plane 

a large and crazy family 

Just how I like it.

Never lonely 

Always loud

Perfect

Florida 

passing through

to Georgia 

more moving

more growing 

adventures

traveling

discovering 

discovering loss

discovering happiness 

awaiting

my next move

When my brother's plane landed and our sibling trio became four not much felt different from the previous day. Sure, now there was this little blob of a boy with a balding spot bigger than any old man's and a smile so big that not even his chubby face could contain it, but the concept didn't stick at the time. Yet another baby, but it didn't feel so different. Maybe it didn't feel so different because there were already so many of us. I mean once you have 5, what's one more small addition? This isn't to mention we had numerous animals running around so I guess another baby fit in to the scheme of things.

Maybe it didn't feel so different because I was too preoccupied to take notice. At the airport there are hundreds of edible reasons around every corner to be  distracted and a 5 year old self, like my own, can't help but take notice.

But perhaps the real reason it didn't feel so different was because it was natural. Maybe somehow in that crazy imagination of mine I knew all along this day would come simply because it was meant to. 

"It little profits that an idle king, by this still hearth, among these barren crags matched with an aged wife..."

This is a quote I often heard my grandfather mumbling as he would make his way from his old leather recliner to the dinner table at exactly 6:00 p.m. every night. He would always trail off right as he got to his seat, making "aged wife" nearly inaudible. My grandmother would have the table set neatly, exactly the same as she had it set the day before and probably the same way she's been setting it her whole life. Always the same. 

Repetition described my grandmother perfectly. She would make lists and schedules and would abide by them strictly. She was never a minute off, never, and my grandfather couldn't stand it. My grandfather's age eventually caught up with him though. No more working, no more boating, no more fishing, swimming, or even leaving the house for any reason other than church. He was held captive in his household and captive to my grandmother and all of her schedules. 

I can now see how much this bothered him. He had lived the majority of his life unpredictably, going where he wanted, when he wanted and never apologizing for it. He never dreamed of having to spend the last years of his life wasting away. 

He died just a couple years ago, before I ever saw this side of him, and though he made have died an idle king, he certainly will not be remembered as one. 

literary magazine

In last year's lit mag I liked the incorporation of graphics into the text. The theme also helped the flow of the issue and made a smooth transition between the different groups (solid, liquid, gas, plasma). The different graphics, layouts, and fonts kept it interesting, though sometimes the contrast was overwhelming. Some of the photos were fuzzy, and I would hope that we wouldn't have that problem this year. Different from previous literary magazines, the one last year seemed to reach the target audience better. Basically, the older ones looked boring, and I was less excited about reading them. 

Oh, and personally I like the smaller pages better. 

observation poem

It's an uphill street

but that doesn't faze him.

He's done this before.

This may not be a mountain

or even a race,

but it's just as important.

His real cycling days are over

way over

but 

on the small trip from work to home

he relives it all 

the sweat

the pain

the satisfaction

and if only for twenty minutes,

he feels alive.

underneath the rubble (poem)

underneath the rubble

a golden key lay.

rust covered a once shiny surface

its existence is unknown

as are the secret places it dares to unlock

such places

only found in playful minds of adolescents

or wandering imaginations of young souls

such power

could come from use of this key

but it remains hidden

forever 

beneath the rubble

of lost childhood

and forgotten dreams

recipe poem

two slices of bread

opposites

on one, peanut butter

creamy and smooth

never disrupted by "chunky-ness"

the other 

gracefully decorated with jelly

(grape of course)

and when these two sides meet

it's magic

perfect

if only for a moment

the lone tree standing

bare from winter's icy chill

dead 'til spring returns

Decorative

Elegant

Christmas

Eve

Merry

Beautiful

Evergreens

Reindeer

Bigger Mistake Than George Bush

Palin.

I Remember poem

I remember

  your smiles,

  your comfy living room,

  your "homemade" food.

I remember

  your sense of humor,

  your laughter,

  your memories.

I remember 

  sitting on your lap,

  waking up Christmas morning in your house,

  giving you the biggest bear hugs imaginable.

I try not to remember

  your yelling,

  your anger,

  how strict you could be.

But the day you left and how it came too soon, now that's something I'll never forget.

  

55 words

Every two months I make myself visit her grave. If not for anything else, I go to replace the flowers. I would give anything to just leave her fake flowers, and spare myself the pain of such frequent trips. She would never allow such a thing, though. Fake flowers are not fit for real memories.

underneath the rubble

Underneath the rubble, a golden key lay. Rust covered what used to be a shiny surface. No one knew of its existence or the secret places it dared to unlock. Such places which otherwise are only found in the playful minds of adolescents or the wandering imaginations of young souls.
Though such great power could come from use of this very little key, it will remain hidden, forever beneath the rubble of lost childhood and forgotten dreams.

A Bad Day

Poor little Jay has been having a rough day. He woke up late only to discover it was nearly 100 degrees outside, and nobody likes hot days. To top it all off, it's a Monday, and his senior project outline was due weeks ago.
Poor Jay just can't get a break. His mom was so busy the night before vacuuming the hair off the dog that she forgot to pack her son a lunch. Jay had to pack the little food his family had left. Unfortunately for him, it was his least favorite: a tomato and pickle sandwich.
Once at school he realized he would have to write timed essays ALL day. The bad news didn't stop there. When he got home he found out that his favorite team, the Yankees, has been on a losing streak.
Well, I guess that's what you get for being a Yankees fan.

list poem

winter,
like sno-cones,
or whip cream.
an adventure in your freezer.
New Mexico
an oven
for the most perfect grilled cheese

dream

      I'm in my room, or at least what I believe to be my room. The walls are too white, too tall, and too wide. Nothing is familiar about it, yet I'm comfortable and safe, so I don't question its appearance.

      I'm hiding from something or more like someone, but I'm not sure who. All I know is that they can't find me. That's simply not an option.

      All of a sudden I hear a noise in the hallway, and without thinking twice, I assume it's my mother.

      My hand extends for the doorknob and just before I bust it open, I catch myself. What if it's not?

      I open the door just a little and peek through the crack. It's them, whomever they are. I quickly shut the door and lock it. Though my mind would rather panic, my body allows no such thing. I rush to the small window high upon the the opposite wall. I unhook the the latch and quickly hop out.
      It's as if there's no scenery outside, and I know I have  not yet escaped.

      Suddenly they appear. This time I see their faces, and they see me. I know I know them, yet I can't recognize their faces. All I know is that I should have been able to trust them.

      As I try to run, I realize my legs aren't taking me anywhere. The faster I try to run, the more I realize how paralyzed I am.

      Before the episode concludes, I awake. I'm in my room again, my real room. It's familiar this time, but somehow it no longer feels so safe.

Superhero

      This isn't a story about people with superpowers because, quite frankly, I don't find those interesting or even impressive. If you are given amazing powers and then decide to do amazing things with them, what's so special about that? It's the ability to do amazing things with mediocre powers that's truly deserving of the title "superhero." 

      Take Little Tim for example. He's never been much of an athlete, but somehow, by some twist of fate, he managed to score the winning goal for his team in the championship game. 

      Now I don't know about you, but I find this far more impressive than anything Superman's done. I mean, sure, he can fly, and pick up cars, and  fight villains, and such, but that doesn't make him super, only his powers. Take those away and he's certain to be nothing but a Little Tim himself, except that you haven't heard of him scoring any championship goals. 

My Favorite Place

My favorite place in the world, though not specific, is on top of a mountain. One covered ever-so-gracefully by a thick, clean blanket of snow. It doesn't have to be any particular mountain, though the ones I know best live out west in New Mexico.

There's a beauty in the snow and the biting cold that comes with it. Some think the cold to be bitter or harsh, but I know it to be different. It's a force to be respected and admired. It's a reminder of what warmth is.

My best childhood memories involve playing out in the snow 'til my nose turned rosy red and my little finger tips froze. I would stay out for hours in the cold, long past the first numbing sensation. I knew all too well that when I was good and ready I could return to the safety of my home and be protected in its warmth.

Marvelous Monday: Dave Barry

"You look just darling," my old aunt said, pinching my cheeks and almost popping them off. My floral dress reaches just above my ankles, my tights are itchier than our lawn that daddy hasn't cut in weeks, and the ribbon in my hair is pulling my head too tight. I have to keep my hands over my ears just to make sure my brain doesn't smush out. I don't know what "darling" even means, but I don't like it.

Mommy said I better be good tonight or else I have to go to bed right when we get home, no bed time story or anything. I asked her if that meant I wouldn't have to brush my teeth, and she gave me a look, the same one she gives me when she knows I've spoiled my dinner by eating one too many cookies.

It's all just so boring. I can't even go outside because there's the biggest, most scariest storm I've ever seen. Mommy said it's raining cats and dogs, but I don't see any anywhere. It's more like lots and lots of water and branches and stuff. Daddy said we'd have to swim home, but I sure hope not. I don't want to get my new shoes all soggy and gross like when I forgot to take them off last week before jumping into Grandma's pool. Mommy wasn't just making her cookie face then. She was making one like a million times scarier than the storm outside. I thought for sure her eyes were going to pop out and splatter me in the face.

I'm glad that didn't happen though because Mommy's the one who helps me wash my face, and I don't think she'd be very much help if it were her eye goo she had to clean up.

Magic School Bus

      "It's 10 o'clock mom," I yell, my little legs rushing me into the living room. "Move out of my way!"

      My stubby fingers snatch the remote from my mother's hand. 37 was what I pressed and the Magic School Bus theme song filled the room. I clapped my hands in anticipation of what would surely be the highlight of my day.

      Ms. Frizzle makes her way onto the screen and into my heart. 

      

Mexico

      We arrived at the airport in a little border town just inside Arizona sometime late in the afternoon. It was hot and dry, and I could already tell it would be a long week. 

      We piled up in a white van and drove into Mexico that next morning. Though it couldn't have been more than 20 miles away, it was a whole different world, one foreign and unfamiliar to my American eyes. The sun wasn't just beating down to the desert dirt; it was daunting and unforgiving. It felt sorry for no one. 

      Working on various projects the next couple of days, I couldn't help but realize I wasn't doing much to help. Sure I could paint and clean up today, but how would this help them tomorrow? What good was I actually doing?

      We later visited the city dump that was home to much more than old furniture and forgotten toys. I couldn't help but question if we were all doing more harm than good. The people there already subjected themselves to surviving on what others didn't care for. Must they also be subjected to the judgement of others born with so much more than them?

      

Thunderous Thursday

      As the curtains parted, the crowd stared in utter anticipation. No one dared to move, not even blink for fear of missing what was about to take place. The actors took their spots on stage and waited for the cue. Act 4 had started.

      The lights wandered until they found their way to the actors, and finally one spoke the first words. The dialogue flowed naturally and calmly, much too boring to keep all of the audience members awake. Fifteen minutes went by with almost no action, no drama, and no mention or hint whatsoever to the the killer was.

Fifteen minutes turned into thirty, thirty into an hour, and an hour into two. Not one single eyelid remained open, and Hamilton himself even lost interest. The pain of boredom started settling in and everyone became restless. Even the actors seemed as if they were running out of words to say. 

       "Fine," shouted Olivia. "It was me! Now can we please go now?"

Tornado Warning

      I woke up this morning as usual. Everything seemed typical, even the pouring rain. I left at approximately 8:07 and drove to Sara's house, as I normally give Sara and Maggie a ride to school. Everything seemed calm, almost too calm, but our journey would be anything but.
      Sara and Maggie joyfully jumped into their seats, happy and giddy as always. Their smiles soon faded, however, as the alarms sounded, and sirens filled the air. Soon panic arouse and clouded over my rational thinking.
      "What's going on?" shouted Sara.
      "What should we do?" piped in Maggie. Her big eyes were filled with fear.
      "Are we going to die?" asked a faint whisper.

      With all these questions racing around my head, I began to wonder the same thing. Luckily, my survival instincts had a different plan. 

      "Not on my watch," I heard my lips speak.

      I hit the gas and weaved through the cars. 

      Though all the elements were against us, we eventually made it to the safety of Decatur High School.

Childhood Memory

      I never understand parents. Always taking pictures all the time. I mean don't they understand that we have better things to do? I have a whole pile of Barbies in the back that are just waiting to be played with. If they have nothing better to do why don't they just go make us cookies or something? Cookies always beat pictures.
      Another thing I will never understand is why we always have to match. These yellow shirts are giving me a headache . They can barely tell us apart as it is. I know they think it's cute and all, but don't they know it's so embarrassing. How's a girl supposed to walk into the second grade knowing her parents are probably at home planning the next family picture?
      All of this just isn't fair. I mean the embarrassment and boredom are bad enough, but to top it all off Abby gets to hold her stupid toy. She never shares with me.
      I can't wait for this to be over.

Observation Card

      I am in front of Decatur High School, my home away from home for the past three years. Just one year left here before it releases me into the "real world." I walk into the building that's all too familiar and head straight up the stairs to room 321, my favorite classroom. Ms. Cassell is sitting at her desk, smiling as always and welcoming her students as they eagerly file into her classroom. It's as if the sole reason for their coming to school was 4th period creative writing.
I see Jacob sitting in the desk next to mine, behind him Daniel, and beside Daniel, Caleb. It's my happy little 4th period gang.

Oral History Project Interview Questions

-What's your name? How do you spell it?
-Where and when were you born?
-Where did you grow up?
-Tell me about your family life.
-Do you have any children?
-What did you do for a living?
-What were some of your first jobs?
-How much did you get paid?
-Tell me about the schools you attended.
-If you could leave advice to today's youth, what would it be?

An Old Photograph

      The old photograph of my grandmother's wedding sits on the back of my shelf. It was an arranged wedding, yet my grandmother took great pride in it anyway. She didn't much like my grandfather, but somehow she learned to love him.
      I found this photograph out with the trash one day. My mother said she couldn't have it in her house any longer. She wasn't fond of her father or the childhood upbringing she got from him.
      "It's already enough I have his eyes," she would say. "I don't need his old photographs, too."
I would nod and pretend to agree with the woman whenever she would go on one of her rants, but secretly I was fascinated with my grandfather and would give anything to meet him.