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?"