Mirror - Poetry

I reflect the woman
Who sighs as I let her down
The uncertain, the reserved woman
She is calm, a hesitance inside her
Squinting to see her soul

The more I stare
The more I see

I reflect the child
Who laughs and dances
The innocent, the carefree child
She is bright, a sparkle in her eye
Her soul clear as crystal

Intertwined these two beings
Like deep black coal that woman
Aged into a diamond this child

Goodbye School - Non-Fiction

I'm facing the last days of my high school career. Am I scared? No, there's nothing to be scared of yet. Am I happy? If happiness is leaving bad memories and annoying people behind, then yes. Will I miss anyone? With all the social networking that goes on, everyone I know is just a click away. What have I learned? Apparently everything I need to know...

Only a few more times I will walk down the narrow corridors of Cansfield High Specialist Language College. Even less times, I will wake up early to trudge to the school. Never again, will my name be called on the morning registration. Only four more times, I will write the candidate number 4308. The uniform I wear will become a faint memory as next year it's out with the old and in with the new. The five years I spent there as a student will be reduced to mere memories and the odd photograph. School books will be thrown away, uncompleted homeworks will remain uncompleted, letters will be thrown away.

Would I like to thank anyone? Do you thank people for doing their job? No, but I probably will.
Will I visit? I doubt it, I'm not that kind of person. Should I keep in touch with my friends? Maybe, but people change, grow up and move on.

I have two maths exams and two german exams left. These last few days have been a flurry of revision. Linear equations, correct grammar, expanding brackets and correct use of tenses. I know when they're done I can't change what I've written, in a way, that idea calms me. So, I'm leaving. I'm moving on, I'm starting a new chapter in my life with new people and new things to learn.

Am I scared? Yes.

Confident - Fiction

A sudden breeze swept up the hill like a whispering falcon, brushing my hair over my face in a veil of tangles. A smile spread across my face as I opened my eyes for the first time in a while, taking in the glorious fall sky. The sight was dramatic and soothing at the same time; from the golden blood of a dying sun to the clouds of gray gauze it seeped into, I found it almost impossible to look away.

Almost.

But even with the muted light and the irresistible natural splendor, there was something even more captivating that called to me. It was the sound of his guitar, a bright tinkling of falling water, that stole my will with a thousand times the intensity of the sweetest siren song. Slowly I surrendered, my eyes confirming the likeness between the sight before me and the one I had fabricated in my mind. He was sitting cross-legged, his slender arms cradling an old acoustic: an animated portrait of true ease. I propped myself up to get a better look at his face and couldn’t help but smile when I found it deep in concentration.

For a moment I only watched and listened, mesmerized by a simple melody that was both familiar and foreign. He stole a glance to see if I was watching, only to quickly look back at the fret board and recover a missed note.

“Since when do you play?” I asked, my smile growing wider.

He took a moment to respond, filling the silence with a bittersweet symphony. “Since you wanted me to.” His smile lit his face for an instant before it hardened in concentration once more.

I frowned. “I don’t remember that. As if you needed another way to upstage me.” My tone was playful, but my thoughts remained serious. Although his playing was far from perfect, having him pick up an instrument was not something I had asked for.

“You wanted me to become more … genuine,” he said softly. “I knew this would be real to you.” He let a final chord ring out, then abandoned the weathered instrument and focused on me.

My lips tightened into a line. “I don’t want to talk about this when I’m here,” I sighed, lying back in the grass. “Let me dwell on this when I’m alone. For now, let’s just –”

“Exist?” he finished, his voice heavy with intimation. A moment passed while we listened to the wind in the nearby trees and searched for words when nothing was meant to be said.

I let out a breath I had been holding and looked at him. His eyes burned into mine, trying to show how much it hurt to remind me. In a desperate attempt to keep my mind busy, I heaved myself up and pulled the silent guitar into my lap. My fingers pulled awkwardly at the strings until they recognized a pattern and prompted the shining wires to keep up, singing a tranquil tune. I wasn’t very good, but I was thrilled when I saw him watching out of the corner of my eye.

“You really should play more,” he said softly, shifting his weight so slightly that I almost didn’t notice. I looked up through my eyelashes for a second.

“I should be doing a lot of things right now. You know how crazy it is. Schoolwork, my jobs, those art projects …” My list could go on. “This, however, this is not one of them.”

I hardly noticed that I had stopped playing.

Somehow I wanted that to hurt him; I wanted for him to say no, he needed me, or that this was all that really mattered. But he just stared with stony sincerity and eyes that burned like dying suns. It made something inside me break.

My heart lurched when I understood: there would be no protest; he would not fight. This was a decision he would have me make alone. I wanted to cry out in agony, for the sole factor of my heartbreak would not be enough for me to abandon my common sense. But a word, one word of encouragement from him, would set my will on the other side.

Knowing that, he remained silent.

For a moment, out of pure desperation I held my breath to see if he would fold. Maybe at the last minute he would murmur the words that I so severely needed to hear. But after the coldest silence I could imagine, we both knew the decision I would be walking away with.

I swallowed hard and lowered my eyes from his face, terrified by my sudden urge to lose control. Time raced against me with a mocking grin as I stood quickly; I couldn’t allow myself to change my mind.

I ached to leave him with some kind of parting gesture, but I only yanked the guitar from the ground and let my footsteps take me away. Perhaps I turned back to look at the field once I reached its end, just where the grass sprouts through the frayed edge of the ribbon of road. It’s possible that my eyes scanned the golden horizon for a moment longer than absolutely necessary, making sure of my decision.

But I’m sure I would have seen nothing more than I expected to see: a lonely wind combing through an empty, dying field.

***

My lungs pulled in a gasp of stale air that did little to satisfy the ache that wracked my body in the form of frantic heartbeats. Fire pulsed through my veins to pool in my fingertips and toes while I struggled against the millions of invisible restraints holding me to the bed. I opened my stubborn eyes to the dull light that streamed wearily through my window and strained to loosen my joints one by one.

Good morning.

Perfect - Fiction

The eyeliner makes the dark circles less pronounced. The lip gloss hides the trembling. The ponytail conceals missing patches of hair. The Abercrombie sweater covers bruises. I might look at bit thinner, but everyone will ask about my new diet. My hair might not shine the way it used to, but the pink ribbon will distract curious eyes. One hour of preparation and I look like myself. One hour of preparation and no one will know. One hour out of 24. Sometimes I wonder if it’s worth it – wasting a twenty-fourth of my day on a lie. But then I see my wispy hair and baggy eyes, and I have to do it.

Checking my makeup one last time, I push my sleeves up, though not past my elbows. I slip on a cute pair of flats – heels are too dangerous with shaky legs – and grab my Hollister bag. Padding downstairs, I inhale the scent of waffles and syrup.

“Morning, Mom,” I call.

“Morning, baby,” she chirps. “Did you sleep well?”

“Better than I have been.”

She sighs, and her eyes look a hundred years old for a minute. “Any improvement is good,” she says half-heartedly.

“Of course.”

“I made waffles.” Her offering.

“Thanks, Mom. Smells delicious.” My offering.

I sit at the table and she hands me a plate. The thought of all that food turns my stomach, but I force a smile and thank my mother again. She busies herself at the sink and fills the silence with chatter. When she turns around, she takes in the waffles still on my plate, only missing a few bites. I smile apologetically.

“I’m not very hungry this morning.”

“You’ll need your strength for this afternoon.” She bites her lip. She doesn’t like to bring it up over breakfast. I eat another bite.

“I packed your lunch.”

“I’m 18, Mom. I can pack my own lunch. You have more important things to do.”

She reaches for the paper sack. “But now I know you’ll have something to eat. And you need to eat, okay? You have to keep your strength up.”

Sighing, I take the bag. I know this peanut butter and jelly sandwich won’t be eaten, not any more than the one yesterday or the day before. And even if I do eat it, I’ll just throw it up later. Anything consumed after 11 ends up in a plastic basin at 4:07. It’s just the way it works.

“Hon, have you thought about what I said the other day?” she asks.

I shrug noncommittally.

“Sweetheart, you can’t hide this forever. Eventually you’re going to miss school and people will start asking questions.”

“Mom, I have two months left of high school. I can make it ’til then. I’m class president and probably valedictorian. I was voted ‘Most popular,’ ‘Most fun to be around,’ ‘Best smile,’ and ‘Most likely to succeed.’ I’m the girl who’s got it all together. People don’t want to know that the girl who’s got it all together, doesn’t have it all together. People don’t want to know that girl is dying!”

“Honey, don’t say that. You’re not dying.”

“Yes, I am. I have cancer. You heard Dr. Morrison. I have maybe a year left. But that means I can graduate and then never see those people again. I’ll die and they’ll feel sorry for me, but at least I won’t have to endure their pity.”

“But …,” she tries to interrupt.

“Mom, listen to me. I don’t want to be the girl everyone looks at and whispers, ‘Look at her. Poor thing, she has cancer.’ I can’t handle that. I want to be normal. Just for these last two months.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “Okay. Just remember, it’s okay if you don’t have it all together. Sometimes things just fall apart and there’s nothing we can do.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I grab my bag and lunch and kiss her on the cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” my mom replies. This exchange, once taken for granted, is now a vital part of every morning, every afternoon, every night. Three little words, followed by four more, have come to mean more than an entire conversation. They bridge all gaps and disagreements, because we both know there is now a finite number left.

Keys in hand, I open the door and blink in the early morning sun. My silver car waits in the driveway and as I walk toward it, I check my reflection in the tinted window. Perfect.

A Quick Photo - Suprise, Dash!

Dash The Rabbit

Forever - Fiction

In the days of the war, when men and women ran headfirst into ­barrages of gunfire, there was not one person unaffected. Soldiers died, and families submerged in sorrow when the officer knocked on their door. I was no different. I was the naive, fresh-out-of-high-school girl who married a reservist, and then paid the price for my innocence.

I remember that hour vividly: the meek face of the officer, the wind nudging the clouds over the sun, down to the small flag waving on my porch. I bit down on my lower lip. This was the moment that had starred in my nightmares for seven months. At any second, I would wake up and be staring at the ugly popcorn ceiling of my bedroom. That relief never came. Zachary Atmos, my husband, was killed trying to protect an injured comrade.

Exactly one week later, in a whirl of color and people talking too fast, I followed my brother-in-law to my seat at the funeral. It was a miserable day. Rain had poured relentlessly for two days. In my self-pity I believed that the angels were crying.

The militaristic funeral service was covered by neon blue tarps; the riflemen seemed unfazed by the cold. In unison, their guns fired three times in salute to my husband. With every ringing shot, I shook.

I wondered what he had heard in his final moments. Was he in pain when he died? Had he thought of me? What if I had joined alongside him and been deployed also? Would things have been different? Now there was no way of knowing.

Like the statues placed around the cemetery, I was similarly stone-faced, but with ribbons of moisture running down my face. I was crying. I and the attendees around me were like a black-clad sculpture garden, conveying solemnity in our midst. I moved only to accept the flag that was laid over my husband’s coffin. Over the sheet-like drone of the rain, a single bugle player performed the lonely tune of Taps – a lullaby for the dead.

Then, as quickly as everything had begun, it was over. I was walking away, my face downcast toward the sidewalk. I wondered if Zack was watching me, if he was feeling okay. My mind was so wrapped in these questions, I wasn’t paying attention. The stiletto heel of my shoe wedged into a crevice, causing the other to slip on the concrete. My leg flew up while the other collapsed under me. I don’t remember much of the initial fall, but I must have yelled, for the ducks nearby retreated to their hidden nests in the reeds.

My dress was wet and my tumble broke my umbrella. My bangs stuck
to my temples, pressing the newly acquired grime to my face. Forcing myself to my knees, I noticed a diluted film of red coating the ground. Only then did the palms of my hands and my right knee begin to sting. For the millionth time that day, tears flew to my eyes and threatened to spill over my lashes.

My marred hand went to my face instinctively, smearing blood on my cheeks and sending mascara around my eyes and brows. I caught my reflection in a puddle, my shoulders falling at my pathetic image.

Great tufts of hair hung matted, ­soggy, and windblown. My makeup ran in deformed rivers. My black gown was wrinkled and stained with blood. Suddenly, the smallest flash of light caught my eye. Centered neatly in my V-shaped collar hung the necklace I had put on that morning. My gaze was locked on the tiny charm on the delicate chain. Zack had given me it shortly before he was deployed. It depicted the face of a wolf. The flat back of the charm had a single character in Japanese hiragana: Kokoro – the word for “Forever” or “Always.”

I knelt there in the rain and wind, contemplating … always … always … The word sounded so comforting. My fingertips grazed the cool metal at my throat, and I stood. I gathered my purse and my useless umbrella, standing straight and tall. The pendant on my necklace rested comfortably at my heart like unbreakable armor.

A few hours later, I was home, bathed and warm again, hands and knee bandaged with care. Huddled by the fireplace with a book, I looked into the flames, where I swear I saw him smiling his dorky grin at me.

Don't Cry Butterfly - Fiction

I didn’t care. Really, and truly, if you had asked if I cared, I might have said “Do what you want; I’m not your Boy Scout leader. I don’t care”. And maybe, maybe you would have gently pulled my face up to yours and read the lie that was plainly written all over my face. And maybe you would have been able to see the heart wrenching pain in my eyes; bursting with tears that refused to be shed. And maybe you would have said “Butterfly, don’t cry I will always be there. I promise.” And lift me up so I could kiss you, because, of course, I can’t reach all the way up those basketball legs. The kiss would be brief and sweet, your way of reassuring me that all would be right in the world. You’ll see.

Of course, you didn’t do any of those things before you went off to “serve your country” and “be a man” and give everyone “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.” But what about my happiness? What about that? Didn’t that matter to you at all? But I suppose that I should try to be fair. You did write a note to me. It has a lot of letters from the alphabet that piece together a message about why you did this. But I don’t care about that part- I care about the part that reads “I love you; you are my angel from heaven above.”

And the part about this that makes me want to hide from my grief and pain, is how I’ll never get to say it back to you.