In cars

I see her all the time
always in cars
driving.
Younger or older than she should be.
Brown hair, red hair.
Who could remember now?
They all pretend to have forgotten her.
Have they?
I follow her down streets I don't know
getting lost in my illusion.
It would never be her.
It couldn't be her!
Yet
I follow her always.
Tears glisten my eyes and apologies form on my lips.
I always give up
eventually.
They wouldn't understand,
those impostors of my mother!
She died so many years ago
I am ashamed I still search her out in crowds
and cars.
But I still hold on to the secret wish
that she will knock on my front door
and it will all have been some hoax
or mistake,
that she will be alive.
Sometimes I want to dig up that mound
I haven't seen since the funeral
just to see her skeletal remains,
squirming with plant roots and worms,
to get that closure
and stop following her in
cars.

Primary language spoken at home: Ingles.

Revelations

I am the woman clothed with the sun. My head crowned with stars, and the moon at my feet. Above you all, I am your mother, free from sin, free from pain. Rays like ribbons wrap my skin. Warmly I glow. I am not the woman clothed with the sun.

I am the whore who rides the dragon's back. All of Babylon crumbles at my feet. Below you, but more powerful, you ride your sweet seducer. All of mankind is ripe for my taking. Flames tear through the dark sky from my lover's mouth, my thighs spread wide. I am not the whore who rides the dragon's back.

I am the beast who's sign marks your face. A more tempting seducer, I used fear and power to lure you. Now the world is mine for destroying, and the damned still praise my name. Ignorance is my brother, and all the faithless crouch, trembling, before me. I am not the beast who's sign marks your face.

I am the people, scared and damned. Impatiently, I wait for my Savior. He will never come for me. Not long from now the dragon will consume me too, but no amount of repentance can save a marked soul. Tears are my last barrier from truth. I am not the people, scared and damned.

Mother

Now, three years have passed.
Lonely, isn't it?
I'm walking across the stage,
All dressed up to leave,
Family with tears in their eyes,
So proud of me,
My accomplishments recognized,
My goals achieved,
I beam as brightly as I can,
Shining in the sun,
Because although she cannot be here,
With tears in her eyes, too,
I can still have her with me,
Etched into my dragon's bones.

Poems

The Curtain Falls On Us All
(in imitation of John Godfrey Saxe)

Twas warm young night
took me by the hand
and her moon gave light
leading where to stand,
on the dying shore,
on the sleeping sand.

Her flowing gown
blending with the sea,
Her stars shone down
so I could easily
see the stage spread out
where my mother be.

Her solo song
with her gurgling throat
with the notes too long
and her glazed eye gloat
on her hospital bed,
on her last life boat.

There my mother sang
of a differnt time
when the church bells rang,
aria sublime,
reaching out to me
with its welcome rhyme.

And I cried to night,
"Won't you let her go?
For she can't breathe right
and her heart's too slow,
and I'm far too young
to be pulled so low."

But the night spoke not
then the stage beamed bright
with my mother caught
in a dance of fright,
And I couldn't see
With my eyes shut tight.

My hand stretched far
so to hold mom's wrist,
Keep her mind afar,
Still her flailing fist,
As the curtain fell
on her life love tryst.

-I could do nothing but cry and wish.

Denial of the end

They're sprawling on my back,
Making obscene gestures,
Biting and crawling
like black fiery catarpillars.
It tickles when
their needle claws rip through my skin,
And burns a little
when the dragon belches flame.
I would tell them to stop,
but it would be too hard
to stop the apocalypse.
Wasn't it the Aztecs
said it would happen in 2012?
Figures,
they'd be wrong.
An iron tooth is buried in my shoulder.
Now it seems, stuck.
Wild primordial laughter is roaring in my ear.
Shut up, you bastards.
I roll my eyes in typical manner,
and continue on my way
with monster at each other's throats,
Spilling blood,
Spilling rust,
all over my lower back.
I will not turn around
for you to see
the creatures in
The final throes of battle,
Behemoth and Leviathan.

dreams......

Let me tell you about the only two dreams I can remember actually laughing in my sleep. You may not think they are funny but I do.

1. All these people, at least a hundred, were lined up at the beach, in a line that went into the ocean about waist deep. At the front of the line was this huge pole with a vending machine money sucker thing for dollars. These people kept putting a dollar in and then in a second a towel would pop out of the tube, but go right into the water, and the person would sigh and go to the back of the line. It was so funny.

2. I had this dream last night. I don't remember all of it, but the part I remember was that I was shaking in fear, cornered in a corner of a room, while a skeleton with his arms out stretched like frankenstein's monster was coming at me, moaning and apparently going to eat me. My sister were across the room witnessing this and as I shook in fear, the monster getting closer every second, my sisters said, "Awww, he's going to hug you". It was the funniest thing, I was laughing in my sleep. Well, I hope you enjoyed my funny dreams.

A funny poem (by me and my sister, Tara)

I once had a sliver in my finger,
The pain caused me not to linger,
I went off to the doctor for help,
When he touched it, I let out a yelp,
He got tweezers to take it out,
But when he turned around, he heard a shout,
Down the long hallway I ran,
Far, far away from that man,
When I looked at my finger once more,
The count of the slivers was four,
I thought I should have an operation,
But first I stopped at a gas station,
The man there said he was sure,
That he had a definate cure,
He sucked out the slivers for me,
And now I am sliver-free!

Is it crazy
For me to want to take you to her
grave
so you can
meet her?
Is it crazy
that I feel like you would know
her,
me,
better
if you came?
Is it crazy
that I would want to whisper
every detail
of my life
into the ground
so she could know?
Is it crazy
that I have wanted to
kick down
that tombstone,
states away,
so that she could feel
my anger?
Is it crazy
that I have wanted to
dig my fingers
into the ground
so that she could feel
my heartache?
Is it crazy
that I have wanted to
fall asleep
on that cold patch of earth
to fall asleep
with her?
Is it crazy
that I still
love her?
Is it?

Second draft....I guess....(Now Edited!)

The young boy sobbed silently, as he waited, alone, in the hospital hallway. His mother had been taken away. He didn't know where she was. Doctors passed by without comment or concern for the crying child, but it didn't matter to the child. In his mind, only one thought, repeating itself endlessly, " What if she had died and they had just forgotten to tell me?"
This wasn't the first time that thoughts of death had consumed Timothy's mind, but this was the first time that he had been truly scared of dying. He remembered that a few years earlier, he had owned a goldfish, Emmett. He had loved that goldfish like a mother loves a child. Everyday he cared for it, feeding it, cleaning it's aquarium, everything. Then, one day, it had just stopped living. He had woken up, and found it floating, bottom-up, dead. He had cried, a little. But, he had been okay with it. He had felt that Emmett must have gone to a better place, (although, the world isn't really good or bad to a fish) some sort of fish-heaven. He had been able to cope, as they flushed his dear friend down the toilet. Why was it so much harder now, when he didn't even know whether his mother was dead or not? That was why. It was his mother, and it was the not knowing, the waiting, the lonely forgotten feeling that was scaring him. The feeling that he would never see his mother again. Tears formed in Timothy's bright green eyes, but his sobs stayed silent. He didn't want to draw attention. He wanted to mourn in private.
He thought about the events leading up to this moment, this horrifying moment. He had ran to get ice cream, the ice cream truck's tinny music ringing down the street. His mother had given him enough money for an ice cream sandwich, his favorite, in fact, the only kind of ice cream he liked. He remembered smiling, and wondered how he could have been so happy. Sitting in that cold hospital hallway, he couldn't even remember what it was to be happy. The ice cream had been so good, the vendor so friendly, and he had been in complete childish bliss when he had heard it. It was a woman screaming in pain. It rang through his ears like a siren. It was his mother screaming. Without thought, he was running, running back to his driveway, running to the backyard, running to his mother, his screaming, suffering mother.
There was blood everywhere. At first, he couldn't tell where it was coming from, but his mother told him. It was coming from her foot. She had accidentally stepped on a nail, and now her shoe was nailed to her foot. Timothy winced thinking of the pain she must have been in. He had ran for help, and found the neighbor. Carefully, he had helped remove the shoe from her foot, but the blood was still coming. They had to go to the hospital. Timothy couldn't stop thinking, so many bad things could happen. Things like "blood loss" and "tetanus" rushed through his mind. He was scared, more scared than he had ever been in his life. His mother was not safe, she was in danger. This was the first time the possibility of losing her had even occured to him. He had sat frozen in his seat, as they drove to the hospital.
It had all happened so fast, the doctors taking her away, then he was all alone. That was when his heart surrendered and let him cry. That was when his mind started reminding him of the fear, "What if she had died, and they had just forgotten to tell me?" Now, here he was, exactly the same, except the fear was coming to a boil. He knew he couldn't hold it in for much longer.
"Timothy," the voice of an angel came to him. Quickly, he turned toward it. It was his mother! She was limping a little, but she was fine. The smile was instant and huge, spreading across his face with perfect joy. His mother was alright. He ran to her waiting arms, hugging her. His mother was alright.

Personal vignette thingy thing

I couldn’t hear them, but I knew they were waiting for me downstairs. I was in no hurry. Nothing could make me rush. I had locked the bathroom door, and stood barefoot on the cold tile floor, looking in the mirror. The suit I wore was black, too low-cut to be considered appropriate for the occasion. It mattered little. My face was pale white, powdered, with black-rimmed eyes and a perfectly painted set of lips. The dark plastic red of my lips was so stunning, nothing else about me could be noticed. In slow, precise movements, I brought the curling iron to my hanging tresses. Clamped and twisted, I manipulated each section, scorching it and setting it in perfect placement. It took me two hours to place my hair exactly as I wanted, but no one seemed to care. They knew that I had to get it just right, or I wouldn’t go.

No one told me I looked beautiful. They wouldn’t have cared if I came down still in my pajamas, unwashed. They merely left me alone as they pranced about the house with fake smiles as they finished the final preparations, and then lead me to their van.

We arrived at the funeral home a few minutes later, and just as intensely as their smiles instantly contorted to scrunched-up sorrow, my face kept cold and blank. As we went through the large door, I could sense the mass excitement of a party just about to begin. People scurried everywhere, and I still can’t recall why. There were flowers, but the place smelled not floral but strange. It didn’t smell like natural, beautiful death, it smelt distorted. I felt like I was at church, perhaps because a minister was there. They kept me away from the room with the casket. Not until the ceremonies begin. I sat down on a soft-cushioned couch in an adjacent room with a step-cousin who was virtually a stranger to me. He held me to him, and I appreciated it, but also tended to push him away. A procession of people came to me. It was strange, I knew these people intimately, and yet we all fumbled over our words and shifted our legs awkwardly, like newly made acquaintances. This fumbling, unfamiliarity pained my heart more than the fact that my mother lay dead in the room next door. They each gave a card that stated cheesy condolences and side stepped around actually mentioning the word “death.” I said, “Thank you,” but I really wasn’t thankful. I wish they hadn’t given me those cards. It was a waste of money. Nobody liked to look me in the eye, but they all had to touch me. It bothered me, their lack of eye contact. It was partly because they knew they were never going to see me again. I would be moving.

My best friend Kristin came to me and sat on the other side of me. She didn’t say anything but “sorry.” She didn’t look at me. She didn’t touch me. She just sat beside me so I wouldn’t have to be all alone, and then she left. We didn’t even say bye. I will always be thankful for those few moments she sat next to me.

Soon, all my visitors had either left or were seated in the room with the casket. I was finally allowed in. I sat in the very front row, but I wanted to with my sisters. They were so little and scared. They wouldn’t let me. I had to be close to the front because I was going to sing. People got up and talked about the woman in the casket, people who didn’t know her well. I didn’t really listen to them. They couldn’t possibly have said anything of importance anyway. They didn’t know her, because she was an agoraphobic. She didn’t really know anyone other than her family.

Someone next to me nudged me, and I knew it as my cue to stand up. I stood in front of all these strangers, and through the funeral home my static tape of piano accompaniment rang out clear. I was going to sing the song that I sang for contest just a month earlier. It was called, “O, Rest In The Lord.” People still think that I was forced to sing it. That isn’t true. I decided to. I found it appropriate, and we had spent so many hours working on it together, I thought she would have liked it. It was a terrible rendition. My voice cracked several times, and I couldn’t hit the high notes. Everyone thought it was because I was crying. That isn’t true either. I was just nervous. My legs shook the entire time.

My sister Hannah came up to the front after I was finished, and read a poem she had written while our mother had still been in the hospital. They might have forced her to do that. I’m not sure. She was crying. Then it was over. All of those familiar strangers paraded up to the casket where she lay, and said their last respects. I went up to her alone. The top half of the casket was open, and I saw the dead woman. She was my mother. I had never seen a dead body before, and I couldn’t help but stare. Well, I had seen her when she had first died, but then she was still warm and soft. I could see she was no longer warm. I could see she was no longer soft. Still, I leaned over her, to be close to her one last time. It was strange I couldn’t feel her breath on my face. I closed my eyes and kissed her on her cheek. Fear bolted through me like lightning. She was hard and cold, inhuman. Her cheek was smooth and lifeless, like a stone. It was shocking. She looked like my mother, but she felt like something that had never lived. She didn’t feel dead. She felt inanimate.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, but they were not for her. They were tears of fear and loneliness and confusion. I became hysterical. I had to be held, stifled by my cousin’s chest until the passion subsided. To this day, I have never been so afraid in my life. I regained composure. I checked my makeup. I checked my perfectly set hair. I became that same cool, quiet girl from before. I pushed everything down. With cold eyes and quivering hands, I left for the burial.

Are you ready for a long, painfully long, entry? This is my play-in-progress "Are You Sleeping Mary Anna?"

Act I

Scene I

The curtain rises. A room, dimly lit, is seen. There is a vanity with a chair. An old woman is sitting in the chair, brushing her hair, wearing only a nightgown. Her eyes are fixed on the mirror and she seems very sad and alone.

CLARA: Old, old, old is all I see. My skin wrinkles itself like a withered old leaf, so fragile it seems it could break with a slight touch. (She lightly touches her cheek with her fingertips, then brings her hand back down slowly, and begins brushing her hair again.) My flesh seeps down my face, look how it sags. (She puts her brush down and touches her neck.) My neck most aged of all. (She sighs in grief, then touches her neck again.) I can’t feel these wrinkles, I can’t feel this weathered face, so it can’t be true. I am not this old. I am young. That face is not my face. That face I see is the face of an old woman who is fading away. That face is the face of a woman who’s life is leaving her, her fate is sealed. Her life has passed before her, wasted. (Looks more intensely at the reflection, judging it.) I can see it in her eyes. Those eyes are old and sad. Those eyes are scared of her approaching helpless years. Those eyes are not mine. (She shakes her head sure of herself. She then smiles in remembrance of her own eyes, and looks beyond the room, into her memories.) My eyes are bright and glittering blue, full of life and happiness. My face is young and beautiful. I am young, only twenty-one. This face is not mine. (She looks back at reflection, stares for a moment, then laughs.) Mirror, you think your lies will trick me? Never. You cannot lie to me. (She looks proud, as if she has figured out the mirrors trick.)

Just then, the door is opened slowly and CLARA turns, startled. MARY ANNA shyly enters. She is CLARA’S daughter, in her mid-thirties, but her face is already starting to age. CLARA looks scornfully at her as she carefully enters the room, as if the wrong step could insult her mother.

MARY ANNA (smiling in an unintentional condescending way): Hello Mother, it’s so nice to see you again. (She speaks somewhat slow in a patronizing way, but not comical.) Father said you weren’t feeling very well, and I thought…

CLARA (interrupting MARY ANNA in a sharp voice): Who are you to call me mother? (She points are MARY ANNA and smiles in a cruel knowing way.) I know why you’ve come. To take me away, that’s why!

(MARY ANNA looks sad and confused and starts walking towards her mother.)

MARY ANNA: Mother, it’s me, Mary Anna. I’m here to help you. Daddy said that you weren’t doing too good and that I should come take care of you. You do remember me, mother? Mary Anna?

CLARA (standing up and backing away slightly): Stay away! (Mary Anna stops approaching.) I know why you’ve come. You monster! You whore! Think you can just march in here and take me, do you? Take me when I’m still young and in my prime? Your tricks can’t fool me. Your cursed mirror (laughs cocky and proud) so pathetic. I know you, I know your ways. (MARY ANNA looks at a loss for words, finally she comes a little closer to CLARA.)

MARY ANNA: Don’t worry Mother, I’ll help you. It will be alright. (MARY ANNA starts toward her mother again, moving very slowly. CLARA starts to panic, she backs away a few more steps.)

CLARA: Stay away! Your cold touch is more than I can bear. Leave me be. A young girl such as I is not yours for the taking. Stay away Death! I know your game! (MARY ANNA is hurt and angry. She comes towards her mother, determined to help.)

MARY ANNA: Mother, it’s me, Mary Anna. You aren’t well. I am here to help you. (She reaches out toward her mother, who is backed up against the wall. CLARA screams in fear and starts to cry.)

CLARA: Get back Death! I know your game!

MARY ANNA: How can you not recognize me, your own daughter? Your only daughter. I was there to help you for so long, and gone for only a couple of years, already forgotten. Am I that forgettable that my own mother doesn’t know me? (CLARA continues to cry and turns her face away.) Mother, look at me. (Mary Anna’s eyes brim with tears.) I’ll help you..

CLARA: Please don’t take me yet, Death. (MARY ANNA grabs CLARA and holds her arms. CLARA cries more intensely.)

MARY ANNA: Daddy told me to give you this if you weren’t yourself. (MARY ANNA cries as she stabs CLARA in the arm with an injection, a tranquilizer. CLARA struggles for a few more moments then starts to calm down, her legs start giving way and she sinks to the floor.)

CLARA: No, I’ve been a good girl. (CLARA lies at MARY ANNAS feet, and falls asleep. MARY ANNA looks at the needle and then places it on the vanity. Then she steps back to her mother and sits down on the ground beside her, lifting CLARA’S head and placing it in her lap. MARY ANNA strokes CLARA’S hair lovingly, and speaks to her in a soft voice, relieved that the struggle is over, but sad about her mother’s condition.)

MARY ANNA: Mother, sweet Mother. It’s gotten so much worse since I left. Daddy didn’t tell me it was this bad. (MARY ANNA begins to cry a little.) I can’t believe you didn’t remember me. Momma, tell me you did. (MARY ANNA sighs and looks away from her mother.) I shouldn’t have come back. But momma (She looks back at CLARA and touches CLARA’S face) Where else is there? (MARY ANNA strokes her mother’s hair again and then lets her head fall in sorrow and begins to weep. MARY ANNA’S boyfriend LARRY comes in through the door and once he sees MARY ANNA he rushes over to her. He kneels next to her and holds her close to him.)

LARRY: Oh, Mary Anna, I’m so sorry. (Holds her even closer as she continues to cry. Looks at CLARA, then turns back to MARY ANNA and buries his face in her hair for a moment, thinking. Then turns his head. Uncomfortable noise (uh or mmm).) She wasn’t herself, huh.(Sighs) Don’t worry, we’ll help her. (MARY ANNA turns to him and embraces him, still crying). Oh, Mary Anna.(He holds her even tighter, his chin resting on her head. End scene.)

Scene II

At MARY ANNA’S house. The scenery is the same but vanity is blocked or covered, so it is not confused with CLARA’S house. MARY ANNA is pacing, worried. A loud noise, like something dropping or a door shutting is heard off stage.

MARY ANNA: (Shouts.) Larry! (Pause.) Larry! (LARRY enters, a bottle of liquor in his hand. He walks somewhat drunk. MARY ANNA puts her hands on her hips when she sees him.) Larry, where have you been?

LARRY: Honey, where do you think? I’ve been where I’ve always been for the last three weeks. Caring for your bitchy mother.

MARY ANNA: Is she doing alright?

LARRY: Same as always.

MARY ANNA: But she hasn’t gotten any worse?

LARRY: Like I said, same as always. (MARY ANNA seems awkward. LARRY laughs and takes a swig of the bottle.) What? Never seen a drunk man before?

MARY ANNA: (Worried.) Larry, you never drink. What happened? (LARRY laughs and drinks again.)

LARRY: Why am I the one who always has to take care of your mother? She’s your mother.

MARY ANNA: Larry, what are you bringing this up for? You know I don’t have time. I have to work all day. Now, Larry, tell me what’s wrong.

LARRY: You know, I had a job too. (MARY ANNA looks surprised.) Yeah, you heard me. Had. As in “don’t have anymore”. And you know why? (MARY ANNA stands stunned. LARRY smiles at her and drinks.)

MARY ANNA: I thought you had all those sick days built up? You told me it would all be fine. Larry, I never would have even suggested it if I knew you would lose your job. (Talking almost to herself.) It was only three weeks.

LARRY: Doesn’t matter what I said. I don’t have my job anymore. (Drinks from the bottle.)

MARY ANNA: But Larry, you knew I couldn’t, and you said you could, and, Larry, you better not blame me for this? It was only three weeks! What, do they fire people who break their leg? Fire people who go on maternity leave? This was a family emergency. They shouldn’t be able to do this.

LARRY: Doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters now. (Looks into MARY ANNA’S eyes.) You know how much that job mattered to me, right? I worked so hard to get where I was, and now it’s all gone.

MARY ANNA: Larry, I’m sorry. (She looks at him guiltily.) Really Larry, I’m sorry.

LARRY: Doesn’t matter if you’re sorry, it won’t get my job back. (Silence.)

MARY ANNA: You don’t have to go there anymore. You’re right, she’s my mother, I should be the one over there helping her. I’ll find some way.

LARRY: Well, I might as well. I don’t have anywhere else to go, now. (Larry drinks from the bottle. MARY ANNA walks hesitantly to him, and hugs him. LARRY puts one arm around her.)

MARY ANNA: I’m so sorry. (LARRY holds her tighter to him.)

LARRY: (Sighs, still upset) It will be alright. (Kisses her on the forehead. A worried look comes to his face.) I don’t know how we’re going to pay the bills.

MARY ANNA: I can always get another job, or sell some of our things,…there are plenty of things we can do.

LARRY: No, I won’t let you get another job. You work hard enough as it is. And I’m not going to let you sell any of our stuff either. We worked hard for the few things we own, we deserve them. Mary Anna, I’ll find a way to keep us on our feet. I’ll go out looking for another job tomorrow, but you know it’s going to be hard for me to find one. I was lucky to have my old job, and now days, I’m afraid my skills will seem obsolete. Why does the world have to change every few years? Making it hard for honest men to find honest jobs. Why is money so hard to find, but impossible to live without? It makes just living a challenge.

MARY ANNA: Well…I could ask my father for money. I’m his little girl, he can’t let me starve. (MARY ANNA smiles at her plan. LARRY gets angry and pushed MARY ANNA away a little.)

LARRY: We aren’t taking any money from that bastard. Don’t you know how he treated your mother? It’s all she talks about, how he hit her, how he cheated on her, how he ruined her life.

MARY ANNA: What are you talking about? He was a wonderful husband.

LARRY: Oh, that’s not what I heard. I heard he would come home from work, and for no reason at all, would just start beating your mother. Beat her ‘til she bled. Beat her ‘til she was barely breathin’. (Getting more and more angry.)And then he would rape her. Rape her ‘til she couldn’t walk. Yeah, he was a wonderful husband, wasn’t he? (MARY ANNA is so upset, she slaps LARRY.)

MARY ANNA: How dare you say this about my father! He loved that woman more than you will ever know. He never once laid a hand on her! He never hurt her, she hurt him!

(Calming down a little.) She isn’t as innocent as you may think. She left him a broken man.

LARRY: Maybe he’s not so innocent either, Mary Anna. You don’t know what’s true and what’s a lie. You’ll never know. You’ve already made up your mind. Now, why don’t you go and beg daddy for a dollar?

MARY ANNA: You’ll never know either. You don’t even know my father. He is a good man. And you’re taking the word of a lunatic over my father. I love my mother, but we both know she’s not all there. If she was, you’d still have your job. Think about that.

LARRY: Your mother’s right, you don’t care about her. She said that you’d never take her side, never believe her.

MARY ANNA: I don’t want to take anyone’s side! (There is a long silence. Both calming down.)

LARRY: Mary Anna, I’m sorry. (Takes her hand, his drunkenness obvious again) Why don’t we go make up…in the bed room. (MARY ANNA takes her hand back.)

MARY ANNA: Larry, don’t. Maybe I’ll go and spend the night somewhere else…

LARRY: Baby, no. Honey, I’m sorry. I won’t talk about it ever again. It’s just, listening to your mother talk about it all day, it starts to sink in… Just don’t leave me.

MARY ANNA: Don’t you ever talk about my father that way again. You don’t know him. You can’t judge him. All I know is he was the greatest father a girl could ever ask for, and that’s all I need to know. Don’t you ever talk to me about this again.

LARRY: Honey, I won’t. I promise, I won’t. Let’s just go to bed. (MARY ANNA looks at him and sighs then hugs him and starts walking slowly with him off stage.)

MARY ANNA: Do you think I should ask him to help us or not?

LARRY: Well, we do need the help. Just don’t ask me to be any part of it.

MARY ANNA: Don’t worry, I won’t. He doesn’t need any more pain in his life, and that’s all you could bring. I’ll see him tomorrow. (They walk off stage. Scene ends.)

Scene III

Opens at MARY ANNA’S father’s (CHARLES) house. He is sitting in an armchair, reading a book, an elderly man, late sixties. MARY ANNA enters, looking very tired but happy to be visiting her father.

MARY ANNA: Daddy! (CHARLES turns surprised and happy and gets up with his arms outstretched.)

CHARLES: Oh, Mary Anna, how nice to see you! (MARY ANNA runs to his arms and they embrace. As they pull away, CHARLES gives MARY ANNA a serious worried look.) Have you…seen your mother?

MARY ANNA: Yeah, Daddy, I’ve seen her. She’s even worse than you said. (Pause.) Me and Larry have been taking care of her…but it’s been hard.

CHARLES: Is she still hallucinating?

MARY ANNA: (A little overcome with emotion.) Daddy…she didn’t even know who I was. She thought I was…death. (CHARLES hugs her sympathetically.) I never thought it would get this bad.

CHARLES: (A little angry.) What do you mean, “this bad”? She’s always been insane. She never has been any better.

MARY ANNA: Daddy, she has been better. She used to know who I was.

CHARLES: Believe what you want. (CHARLES pulls out a pack of cigarettes from his breast pocket. He takes one out puts in it his mouth while he searches for his lighter in his pants pockets.)

MARY ANNA: You know that she has been better, Daddy. Don’t you remember when I was young and we would go to the park for picnics, and how she would pick flowers with me, (getting more dreamy) and comb my hair.

CHARLES: (finds his lighter and lights the cigarette quickly before he pulls it away to talk) Those things never happened! Mary Anna, no one ever took you to the park except for me, and your mother never picked flowers with you or did anything like that. She was hardly there at all.

MARY ANNA: (a little angry but also sad) She was there. She was my hero. I wanted nothing more than to be just like her, a beautiful glamorous woman, loved everywhere she went. Daddy, she was there. ( a little sad) She did brush my hair.

CHARLES: (smokes his cigarette) Yes, yes, she did brush your hair. (Pause.)

MARY ANNA: Daddy, who are you to accuse her of not being there for me? You were hardly there either. I barely remember you before I was old enough I could take care of myself, and I didn’t need you anymore.

CHARLES: You will always need me, Mary Anna. I’m your father. Who will else is there for you to go to when everything is going wrong in your life? All children love their fathers and always need them. And I was there when you were young, you just don’t remember because your mother doesn’t want you to remember. (Pause.) All those years when you were taking care of her, she was molding your memories, trying to change the past so that she would look good.

MARY ANNA: (angry) You know that isn’t true! None of it. She never tried to change my memories. She knows she wasn’t a very good mother, and she’s sorry, but she never tried to paint a new picture of the past. She’s not like that. (kind of to herself and whispered) She doesn’t care that much.

CHARLES: You just admitted it! She doesn’t care. I’m the one who cares about you, Mary Anna. You’re my little girl, my precious little girl, and I will always take care of you, like I always have.

MARY ANNA: Daddy, she loves me! She’s my mother! She has to love me!

CHARLES: But I love you more than she ever could.

MARY ANNA: This is not a contest! Are you telling me my mother doesn’t love me just so that I can be more sure of your love? You must not have been there for me, or else you wouldn’t have to assure me of your love.

Charles: But, I was there for you. I was always there for you, and I always will.

MARY ANNA: Daddy, you won’t always be there.

CHARLES: Of course I will.

MARY ANNA: No, Daddy, you won’t…Daddy, you’re getting older. You won’t always be there. (A silence falls between them. Charles is hurt and embarrassed, realizing that he won’t admit his absences from parts of MARY ANNA’S life, and also not admitting to his own mortality and how his ability to help his daughter is diminishing.)

CHARLES: I’m sorry.

MARY ANNA: No, Daddy, I’m sorry. Of course you’ll be there. You’re my Daddy.

CHARLES: But I won’t always be there. You’re right, my time here is fading.

MARY ANNA: Don’t talk like this.

CHARLES: Mary Anna, I love you. (MARY ANNA starts crying and hugs her father tightly. He hugs back. Then after they pull away, smokes his cigarette again.)You’re right, dear. We needn’t talk about this now. (smokes from his cigarette) But you must admit, that although I’ve been somewhat in denial about …how the years are slipping away, at least I know I’m old, unlike your mother.

MARY ANNA: Why does she have to be like that?

CHARLES: Maybe she really does see her face in that mirror, her old, withered face.

MARY ANNA: But she’s so much worse than before. Larry spends all day down there, taking care of her, helping her, making sure she doesn’t hurt herself. It’s tearing us apart.

CHARLES: Oh, Mary Anna, I’m sorry.

MARY ANNA: He brings her stories home to me! Just yesterday, he came home drunk and started lecturing me on how you weren’t a good husband to her so I shouldn’t have anything to do with you.

CHARLES: How can he say things like that? He hardly knows me…wait, he came home drunk? Mary Anna, you told me he doesn’t drink.

MARY ANNA: He doesn’t, normally…but he had reason to last night.

CHARLES: What happened?

MARY ANNA: He lost his job.

CHARLES: Why? The only thing good about that man is that he’s a hard worker.

MARY ANNA: Daddy, I love him, and he is a hard worker… It was because of…mother. He spent too much time taking care of her, and didn’t go to work enough. It’s all my fault. He only takes care of her to make me happy.

CHARLES: Clara! That bitch! Always messing everything up for everyone!

MARY ANNA: Don’t talk that way about mother. When you guys split up, you promised me that you would never say mean things about her to me.

CHARLES: Mary Anna, how can you not be angry with her? She is ruining your life! Right now it’s Larry’s job, but who knows what she will do.

MARY ANNA: She’s just a confused old woman. She doesn’t know that her neediness is causing trouble for me. I’m sure that if she did know, she would feel terrible about it.

CHARLES: She knows just what she’s doing, and she won’t stop until everything is ruined. She did it to me, and now she’s doing it to you, just to hurt me more.

MARY ANNA: She’s my mother, she wouldn’t hurt me on purpose. She loves me.

CHARLES: She would hurt you! And she would do it just to spite me. (MARY ANNA sighs and walks behind her father to the armchair where she sits down in it.)

MARY ANNA: You know, not everything is about you. You’re almost as bad as mother.

CHARLES: (in an angry “father” tone) What did you say?

MARY ANNA: (sighs) Nothing.

CHARLES: Mary Anna, listen to me. I know you love your mother, but she is sick and is living in a world of denial. She will do anything to keep her world alive, and I’m afraid she will ruin everything for you. You have such a good life now. You have a loving relationship, a good job, everything is going right. Your mother can bring nothing but disaster. She already caused Larry to lose his job. She will ruin everything… Mary Anna, just have her committed, then everything will be right again.

MARY ANNA: I’m not sending my mother off to some asylum! How can you even suggest that?

CHARLES: I know it’s hard for you to admit, but you can’t help her. She needs to be where she can be taken care of.

MARY ANNA: But me and Larry are taking care of her.

CHARLES: You can’t take care of her forever. She’s not going to get better.

MARY ANNA: I’m not going to give up that easily.

CHARLES: You have your own life now! Mary Anna, you have to let her go. She’s lived a good life, and now it’s your turn. It wouldn’t be like you are giving up on her, it would just be you going on with your life.

MARY ANNA: I love her, Daddy. You don’t just send away people you love. I can’t believe you’re trying to make me do this. I love her. You loved her once, too. (CHARLES gets upset and turns away.)

CHARLES: Mary Anna, don’t start.

MARY ANNA: Daddy, I know you loved her. You can’t tell me you didn’t.

CHARLES: Love her. Did I love her? Mary Anna, you don’t even know what love is. In all your life, all of those supposed loves of your life add up to not a fraction of my love for your mother. All the love you’ve ever felt is but a ripple in the sea of love I had for your mother. Did I love her? Of course I loved her Mary Anna. I loved her and she broke me apart. She bled me of emotion, letting it pool at her feet. I loved her. But now she is nothing to me. And she shouldn’t be anything to you. I know you feel you have to love her because she is your mother, that you have to put up with her clawing and tearing at your soul, but you don’t. Honey, you don’t have to put up with that. Let’s just put her away. You can always go and visit her. Just don’t let her bleed you like she bled me.

MARY ANNA: I love her, Daddy, no matter what you say. She is my mother. She took care of me when I was sick, and now that she’s not well, I think that she deserves the same.

CHARLES: I just don’t want to see you hurt.

MARY ANNA: Don’t worry, Daddy. Me and Larry are taking care of her…Which reminds me. Daddy, now that Larry’s lost his job and is spending all of his time taking care of mother, we are going to be facing some tough times. I was wondering, if maybe, you could help out your daughter a bit.

CHARLES: Of course I’ll help you. See, I told you, you always need your daddy there to help you. (CHARLES takes his wallet out and hands MARY ANNA a few twenties.) Do you think that will tide you over for a week or two?

MARY ANNA: Oh yes, Daddy. Thank you so much. (MARY ANNA kisses CHARLES on the cheek and starts to leave.) Daddy, I need to get to work. I’ll come and see you again in a couple of days. Thank you again.

CHARLES: Mary Anna, you will consider my suggestion, won’t you?

MARY ANNA: I guess. I’ll talk to Larry about it. I love you Daddy. See you in a couple of days.

CHARLES: I love you. Bye. (MARY ANNA exits. CHARLES sits down in his chair again.) God help her. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. (End scene.)

(I have a little more than this written, but the rest isn't in scene order, because I haven't finished scene IV, so yeah, I don't want to publish any scene after that until that scene is done. So, that's it for now. I can't believe you are still reading this. You can go ahead, and tell me what you think if you want to.)

My couplet poem for class

In stream so pure, out pours the white,
Perverts the black with color light,

In spinning vortex, here they meet,
Where steaming bitter blends with sweet,

Their clashing turns to unity,
And brings my mind tranquility.


This is a couplet poem. I just was drinking coffee when I wrote this, and it came to me. I didn't think of words that rhymed or anything, it just came to me. I like this kind of poetry because it is easy to write and rhymes, but usually not forced, because only two lines have to rhyme. I think this kind of poem can have any tone or mood because it is so versatile.

My Sestina Poem for class (and yes, i'm aware it's kinda lame)

Ignorant, she stares, smiles,
Unaware of the murder,
The blood under my fingernails,
Which, though I pick, remains,
My red fingers trembling,
My name she calls.

Through the throb, I hear her call,
Her plastic face, her rubber smile,
Her wistful form is trembling,
Her passion as violent as murder,
Her loving gaze remains
Fixed on me, tapping fingernails.

Perfect, French-tipped fingernails,
Clacking out Morse-code calls,
The echo still remains
Of stiletto heels, her laughing smile,
Both approaching the murder,
My breath quivers, trembling.

Her thighs flex, trembling,
She scratches them with fingernails,
As sharp as knives used for the murder,
Both slice flesh with the same call,
One of relief and smiles,
When only guilt remains.

I have hidden the remains,
Though blood still trickles, trembling,
My darling, with her porcelain smile,
My soiled, crusty fingernails,
Both emit the same call,
Of instinct: sex and murder.

I know she won't suspect a murder,
They will never find the remains,
"Where are you dear?" she calls,
Her echo thick and trembling,
Her reaching, grasping fingernails,
Her faltering, flickering smile.

I smile and brush against her fingernails,
The stink of murder on me, decaying remains,
I stifle her calls and trembling.


This is a sestina poem. I wrote it like how it is because the definition said it was usually creepy, so I picked my six end words accordingly (smile, fingernails, murder, remains, calls, and trembling) and built my poem around those words. I didn't particularly like this kind of poetry, because it was hard to get the pattern (it has a very complicated pattern) and hard to work with the same words that many times, but at the same time, it was fun, because I liked the repetitive creepines it caused, and I liked how I could use the same words to mean so many different things, like the trembling which is both the sexual desire of the girl and the nervous excited guilty twitching of the murderer, and the fingernails, which contrast each other with beautiful fingernails and blood-stained murderous fingernails. I thought it was pretty much fun. I think it best suits people trying to make a creepy or scary kind of poem, because the repetition really helps you out with that. Overall, it was fun but hard,...but fun.

A poem I wrote

My wistful wanderer
of smooth tile floors,
They become porcelain at
your sweet white shoes.

Soft wisps of white-blonde hair
curl at your face,
A personal angel
of death for me.

You know my lungs are full,
but still you speak,
I gurgle out replies
to your blank warmth.

Cover me with your form,
A blanket, too,
Dreamily I can gaze
with fevered stare.

You are my fever, dear,
Your routine role
to help ease a dead man,
Just one quick peck.

Nevermind, the light fades,
Day-shift over,
Ice queen night watch awaits,
Don't leave me now.

Hear the steps down aisles,
One final check
to see if prisoners
still breathe, like me.

I see you beside me,
Truly soft smile,
I try in vain to smirk,
You don't mind.

You do not feign sadness,
Just what I need,
My pretty nymph, last breath,
The stage goes black.

Writing for the short story contest (Frosted Windows)

Snow poured into my boots as I ran to his car. Oh Matthew, Matthew, my savior has come! His car was blue but looked white, a foot of snow all around. I saw him shivering through the window, his blond hair icy, his lips slightly purple. That’s how everyone looked then. His bloodshot, pale blue eyes were surprised by me.

I slammed against the door. My face peering in manically happy. I saw his tongue moving, searching for something to say. I couldn’t hear him, but I knew he was stuttering. He couldn’t stop me from wrenching open the door and sliding inside.

“Matt!” I was screaming, deliriously happy, “I missed you!” I hugged him, almost strangled him, almost climbed into his lap. My eyes were large with euphoria. His, large with fear.

“Uh, uh, Melissa, well, um,” he mumbled along.

“It’s alright, you don’t have to say anything,” I whispered loudly, and grabbed his neck, pulling his face toward my puckered lips.

“Wait,” he managed before I rammed my lips to his. He tried to pull away, but I smashed my face even deeper into his, my tongue prying his open. He relented for a second, my mouth awkwardly kissing his with slobbery passion, but he took advantage of my contentment to pull away.

“Oh my God,” he looked slightly disgusted, mostly shocked, “What the hell was that all about?”

I shifted in my seat. “What do you mean?” I muttered, looking down. I was pouting. He got angry.

“Melissa,” he calmed down, “Lissy, you know we broke up over two months ago.” He put his hand on my knee.

“So?” I snapped, very childish. His palm rubbed circles over my knee.

“Lissy,” he demanded comprehension. I rolled my eyes. Tears were forming. “You know I only came to help you through this.” Tears ran down my cheeks.

“I don’t need help!” I yelled. My voice quavered with sobs. He looked frustrated but sympathetic.

“Just stop it,” he spoke sharply, “You’re the one who asked me for help.”

My eyes were slits of anger. He was used to it. His palm pressed harder on my knee, almost painfully. He turned to the window, even though it was frosted over, to avoid my stare.

“Fine, then I’ll go,” almost escaped my lips, but I quickly stopped myself. If I said that, I would have to do as I threatened and leave. It was not going to be over that easy.

I could see the little hairs on the back of his neck standing up. He had goose bumps. His car’s heater was broken. He sighed at the window, foggy breath clouding over the glass. I knew what was coming.

“Listen, I don’t want to fight with you. I’m here to try to make you feel better, not worse. No more talk of what we were or are or whatever. That’s over. Now is a time to heal, not open old wounds,” his voice was stale and rehearsed. He was so anal.

“But,” my lips were helplessly pulled into a frown, my desperate attempt at maintaining composure, “I don’t want to heal. I want it to be how it was before,” he nodded compassionately, “”You know, before we broke up.”

The world broke into silence. His eyes flickered like old light bulbs as realization spread through him. Angrily, neutrally, he spoke slowly and harsh, “You were talking about us? You are heartbroken over this useless relationship?” His face grew red with fury, “ I came to help you with your loss, and you care more about our dead relationship than your dead mother!” Hot spit spattered my face as he spoke. I cowered under his explosive words. Discreetly, I wiped the spit away.

“You don’t understand,” my voice was barely a whisper, “ My mother is dead, and that is unfixable. We are fixable,” I brought his hand to my cheek, “I know the love can come back.” I smiled, hopeful. His anger faded into despair. His eyes gazed blankly through me. His breath rattled in his cold-stricken lungs and steamed out from his lips steadily. I thought he looked beautiful.

“Oh,” he began, but could not finish. His eyes closed thoughtfully. I leaned toward him, to kiss him, but his hand shot up and stopped me, palm to my breastbone. I pushed harder, forcing myself closer, but his hand stopped me with equal force. My eyes darkened and my smile wilted. A silent sob formed in the back of my throat.

“Matthew, Matthew,” I pleaded, “No, Matthew, no, please, no!” I cried. I shrieked. His hand kept still to my chest. My hands became fists. I struggled against his strength, but he pushed me back. My spine hit the door handle, and I groaned. He turned back toward the window.

My fist hit hard into his cheek. I heard a crack. Suddenly, I was flailing, thrashing, my arms, my legs, into his soft flesh. And then it was over. My knuckles were bloody. It was his blood. I had hit him in the nose. Matthew was staring at me.

He didn’t look angry. I was crying again. “Now you’ll never love me!” I screamed at him. He was whimpering. I slammed my hands down on my knees. It would bruise. I sank into myself. “Matthew?” I asked. I was scared.

He nodded. “I forgive you,” he murmured. His palm patted my knee lovingly. Then he turned back to the window.

“You were all I had left,” I whispered. He nodded and stroked my knee. “You were all I had left. You were all I had left. You were all I had left.” I repeated my serenity prayer. He turned to me once more and softly kissed my cheek, dried blood specks marking me. Then he turned away.

I opened the door, let the cold air in. It was snowing again.

“Good luck,” he mumbled to the window. I nodded. “I love you,” I told him. He nodded. Gently, I closed the door behind me, and walked out into the snow. I turned back once, to see his car one last time, but the snow blinded me. I didn’t cry. I went home to change for my mother’s funeral.

Continuation of "beginning of story I have been posting from"

His hand lingered on my shoulder before running down my spine. His hand was calloused, and I could feel it's courseness through my dress. It was like being petted. I almost liked it. Poor Demetri, so innocent for his age.
I had met death many times before. So much, it seemed like a love affair. Demetri was scared, and so was I, but this was not new to me. I looked back at him with a slightly turned head, through lines of hair. He looked shaken. Poor Demetri, he had still to learn that to live, you must die. I took his hand and squeezed it. Then I led him out of the circle of my mourning family. We went straight home.
"His face was so white," Demetri's forehead was wrinkled in childish confusion, "It was like a sheet, or a dove, or something." He buried his eyes in his palm.
"I know, I know," I comforted. He shivered slightly at my touch. I knew it wasn't right, but I suddenly needed to kiss him. I took his chin in my fingertips and slowly turned his face to me. His hand dropped, and his eyes glazed over in peaceful lust. My eyes closed and I moved slowly toward him. He didn't move. He wanted me to kiss him. My fingers groped forward as I leaned even nearer. I could feel his breath on my face. It smelled like cinnamon. I was inches from him, less than that. And then he whispered, " It was like snow." And my eyes fluttered open. My lashes nearly brushed his. His eyes were so scared. Suprised, I laughed. Sometimes, Demetri is perfect.

From that same piece....

"Bye momma!" yelled Rachel as she skipped down the asphalt lane, still quite oblivious to the cruelty people inflict on each other in this world. Her green checkered dress parachuted around her each time she landed. Up, up, she would be swept up into the air, her dress, her hair, clinging to her. Then down, down, she would be flying, dress blooming, hair streaming, and though gravity pulled at her; she was flying. Then she would gently collide with the earth before launching into the air again.
Freddy was there, watching her. Sure, Rachel's youth was not that "T.V. perfect" vision, but as he watched her flying, he saw the essense of innocence. She flew like a bird.
Freddy walked to her, easily matching her pace, and made a "kissy face" at her.
"Silly Freddy," giggled Rachel, still bounding along. She skipped a few more steps, then stopped and turned to him seriously. "Freddy?" she asked, "What game?" Freddy rubbed his chin and looked up with feigned thought, then lifted a single finger to the air brillantly.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed, Rachel stared, enthralled, "Tickle time!" and thus commenced a great struggle. He leaped on her with the grace of a tiger, throwing her to the ground. Surprised, she begged for mercy, giggling, as he ruthlessly searched for those guarded areas that feel so funny.
"I'll get you, Freddy," she laughed, her own hands quickly tickling his ribs. Screaming and laughing, they rolled into the dirt. Conquer or be conquered, they grabbed and pulled. Control rose and fell as did they, enjoying every second of it. Uninhibitated, they laughed. They were carefree. Suddenly, Freddy found that sweet spot, that place that makes you squirm and hit and cry. Rachel's smile grew to comical proportions.
"No!" she barely choked out between wild gasps and hysterical laughter. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she laughed so hard she could barely breath, and then her giggles turned to that silent, open-mouthed laugh where your eyes grow huge and you can't breath in or out. She kicked and flailed out and only when the tears spilled down her cheeks did Freddy cease. Rachel's chest heaved as she desperately tried to regain composure. But her smile never faded. No matter how much she protested or lashed out, they both knew that she loved to be tickled. Freddy rolled onto his side, taking a deep relaxed breath. Rachel turned to her side, facing him.
"Freddy," she asked, "Do you remember the 'old world' my momma always talks about?" His face scrunched up in confusion.
" Why would you want to know about that?" he asked.
"I don't know," she replied, "I just sometimes wonder about it." Rachel lied down on her back, while Freddy carefully contemplated.
"Rachel," he began slowly, "I really don't remember..."

From a piece i'm half-working on...

Once safety was assured, Rachel fell into Freddy's arms, embracing him tightly. Tears streamed down her face in crystal clear streaks. Each drop round and sparkling in the sun.
"Oh Freddy," she managed through sobs, "You saved me." Her body curled up in his lap, his arms, and pressed warmly against him. She buried her face in his chest, and looking down he could see nothing but the dainty white part of her hair and her gentle sloped back. As Freddy held her, his heroism didn't cross his mind. He had only one thought, "How beautiful she is."
Despite her dance with death, Rachel glowed with joy as the turning hands neared twelve. Sunrays peeped out over her head and through the holes in her braids as she skipped ahead of Freddy. Dust smacked their backs in tiny explosions as the wind tossled their hair. Constant breeze pushed them along, toward the lake. No words had been uttered since Rachel's sobs, but they saw in each other's eyes the answer. "Escape, escape to the lake," each iris pleaded, and that was why they headed east. At the lake, you could pretend the world was good again, and urge yourself to keep on living. It was the only water they knew of that still existed.
Shadows dappled the ground with moving light and dust swirled at their feet, but it was cool and their walk was pleasant.
Freddy loved their walks to the lake, but this time felt different. He felt different. It must have been the scorpian, he thought, it had startled his nerves. For now he felt despair coarse through him, and he almost wept. He was so afraid of losing her, and now that he had seen her dance with mortality, his heart beat strong with fear. He felt as if his life depended on hers. That scared him even more.
Steps ahead, thoughts of a different kind formed behind Rachel's eyes. The blessing of youth had cleansed her mind of all the danger from earlier. Now, all she could think about was one thing: swimming. Rachel loved to swim. To her, nothing in the world coudl be better than feeling that cold water splash over her legs, and that shivering delight of dunking her head under. Excitement surged through her at the mere thought of it, and subconciously, she sped up.
"Wait up," she heard Freddy behind her, but she kept her pace steady.

Scary dream, great idea

Okay, so I had this really scary dream last night, but it would make such a great movie! It was like the next biblical flood (but Timothy explained to me that God promised not to have anymore biblical floods, so the idea is a little unrealistic) and everyone is dying. And I go to save Timothy, but he's already dead, and I go to save my parents, but my stepmom is already dead, and my dad is dying and there is this huge wave coming and so he tells me to take my sisters and try and save them. So i'm running with my two little sisters (ages 13 and 11) and they are being difficult and wanting to stay with dad (who is already long gone) and we just barely make it to this weird laboratory place that is high up on a hill. So, we barely make it in through the doors before the water is everywhere, and all these people in crazy-shock are in there too. And there was this minister who is trying to baptize everyone like baptist or something, and I tell him i'm a Catholic, and that I want my sisters baptized Catholic, and he freaks out, and in this other room there is this guy who has found this left-over chicken or something that the scientists who work there had eaten for lunch or whatever, and I saw him injecting it with poisin because he's crazy and he thinks everyone needs to be put out of their misery so he's going to try to make them eat this poisin chicken (kind of like that coolaid cult) and I freak out and try to stop him, and I can't really remember much else, but I personally think it would be an awesome movie. Of course, i'd have to change some of the things that don't make sense, but I could see it becoming one of those action-packed thrillers. Don't you agree?

Beginning of story I have been posting excerpts from

The dead white face of my father stared through eyelids up at me. It was an open-casket funeral. Thick clumpy sobs stuck in my throat and I thought I might vomit. My eyes were thinnly veiled by tears, the reserves, since I had been crying non-stop for three days. To tell the truth, I was faking as I looked down at him. Not because I wasn't sad, but because I had moved on to that stage where everything seems unreal and you are numb. But still, I squeezed out a few tears by focusing on the foreverness of it. That's always what gets me the most. The "good-bye, i'll never see you again," of it. I mean, even if you didn't bury them so you could look at their loving face forever, eventually that face would fade and leave behind only a worm-eaten grin. Death really gives me the creeps. I gently pushed my father's hair back, uncovering his cold brow, and just then, a fly landed on his pale upper lip and began rubbing it's hands together menacingly.
"Shoo!" I whispered and fanned at it, but it merely buzzed it's wings and proceeded to climb into my father's nostril! I stared, wide-eyed with shock. What blatent disrespect! I looked around to see if anyone had seen, but they were too immersed in mourning, so I stood and waited for the filthy creature to come out. I don't believe it ever did. I waited by my father until they closed the casket, and I watched, horrified, as they buried him. Well, that's how it goes sometimes, I guess. I mean, my father did have a rather hairy nose and I could imagine it would be easy to get stuck. It makes me wonder what kind of a mockery of nature i'll become when left helplessly dead.
When they lowered his casket into the gaping hole of the earth, I realized for the first time how alone I was. Demetri was behind me, mindlessly rubbing my back. I could feel his short breaths on my neck. Death scared him. But, death scares everyone. He had just never witnessed it before.

You must understand, when threatened, we are warriors. Demetri and I, we fight with all the strength and adrenaline of combat, but we tear each other's hearts, not flesh. And he knows, that I am the conquerer of minds, that his shield will break with slash of my tounge, but still he battles on, tirelessly. We are a hellish match, Demetri and I. It is because of the depth of our insight. He knows me as well as I know myself, and I him. He knows the words that are daggers, and he knows the weaknesses of my armour. But he is more merciful than I. He resists that greatest pain he could inflict, that mortal wound. Not I. That is why I am the conquerer. I tear at him with bitch claws, and I shred his pride. I am quick-minded and harsh, I am slick and gleaming like the knife. I hurt him, but he keeps hope. That is why we rage on. That is why he stays here. He stays with hope of truce.

Walking

(This is an excerp from something i'm writing, so if you don't understand, deal with it)

He looked at me blank, but not uncaring, and I suddenly hated him. Still, he wanted to understand. So I tried to explain the best I could.
"I was walking this morning, as I usually do. You know, you've gone with me. It's nothing extraordinary, it's simple. I just walk for the feel of it. But when I was walking this morning, it was different. I was on this long street, all by myself, and the leaves were falling. There was brown and red and golden yellow all over the ground, and in my hair. They were falling all around me, and I couldn't stand it. I started running. I ran and ran, but I couldn't feel anything, so I just ran faster. I couldn't feel anything! Don't you understand? It was all falling. It was all of me, strewn on the ground, dead and beautiful. I couldn't feel anything, and I wheezed and ached, but I kept running. And I thought I would run until I died. I knew I would run until I died. It didn't matter because I wasn't myself, and I was just like everybody in this stupid world, as I always was but didn't want to admit it. But I couldn't feel! I knew it hurt, but I couldn't feel! And i'm stupid and ugly and nothing just like you and all those people I have criticsized all my life. Then I tripped. Demetri, I tripped and cried. I fell apart just like the trees and now I can't go back to how it was. Do you understand now? I'm sure you do, because it's exactly the way that every human feels. I am not unique, Demetri. I'm a dime a dozen. I'm just like all of them..." I started to cry again. I saw in his eyes, the conflict between instinct and knowledge, and he decided not to touch me. And though I hated him, I wished he had touched me. He hadn't understood a word I said, and that was fine, because I had made no sense. But for once, I wished he disobeyed and touched me. I was just a nobody like everyone else, and everyone likes to be touched.

(So, yeah, you probably don't get it, and yeah, I know, I know, it's lame and typical, but if you do happen to get it, that is exactly what I was going for. She had always thought herself special and comes to find out that she isn't. Yeah, you can tell me what you think, but i'll be deleting it soon, more than likely.)

Waffles and Chatty Cathy

Okay, so me and Allison wrote this together, so if you've read it on Allison's blog, you don't need to read this one. And yes, the waffle part is based on a true story. And by the way, please read all of the other crap i've written in the time since we stopped "blogging" so much. And tell me what you think. Thank you!

INT. CLASSROOM – DAY – ESTABLISHING SHOT

Students are seated in various places, talking among themselves. CATHY is seen whispering to another student. TOM is seen eating an EGGO WAFFLE. Everyone appears to be exaggeratedly happy except for…

CLOSE UP—

ALABAMA and EMILY are seated side by side; looking as if given their weapon of choice they could kill everyone else in the room.

EXTREME CLOSE UP – ALABAMA’S FACE

ALABAMA turns her head to Emily

ALABAMA
What’s your problem?

EXTREME CLOSE UP – EMILY’S FACE

EMILY turns to face ALABAMA, CLICKS HER TONGUE and SIGHS HEAVILY.

EXTREME CLOSE UP – ALABAMA’S FACE

ALABAMA
(angered)
What’s your problem?!


ZOOM OUT – ALABAMA AND EMILY

EMILY
Well, it all started this morning…

CUT TO:








EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD STREET – DAY

The houses around them look clean and proper, nothing out of place. Wisteria Lane without the crazy stories behind every family. TOM and EMILY are standing at the corner, a PLATE OF WAFFLES beside TOM’s feet.



EMILY
You can’t just leave your waffles out here!

Emily gestures angrily to the PLATE OF WAFFLES.

TOM
Why not?

EMILY
You just can’t!
(pause)
It’s polluting!

ANGLE ON – PLATE OF WAFFLES

TOM (V.O.)
But I’m done with them.

ANGLE ON – TOM

TOM
I don’t want to clean them up.

ANGLE ON – EMILY

EMILY
(pissed)
Well who do you think is gonna clean them up?

TOM looks around for someone else before shrugging.

TOM
I don’t know.

EMILY
I can’t believe you!

CUT TO:

INT. CLASSROOM – DAY

ALABAMA is staring at EMILY as if she had announced she didn’t have a belly button.

ALABAMA
That is SO STUPID! Don’t you know my story TOTALLY trumps yours?


CUT TO:


EXT. COURTYARD – DAY

ALABAMA is seated on a picnic table near a huge cedar tree surrounded by kids dressed in all black. ALABAMA is the only one with a color on besides red or black. Despite this, everyone seems to accept her.



ALABAMA (V.O.)
So like every morning I sit at the tree

ANGLE ON – CATHY

CATHY is seen walking over to the tree. She appears to have something she REALLY needs to share with someone.

ALABAMA (V.O.)
But I have this friend Cathy who won’t SHUT UP!

ANGLE ON – THE TREE

The mob of black clothes students gradually moves away from ALABAMA as CATHY approaches.

ANGLE ON – CATHY

CATHY waves at ALABAMA excitedly

CATHY
Alabama! I have so much to tell you!

CATHY begins rambling on about information that only appeals to her. ALABAMA pretends to be interested.









MONTAGE



1. ALABAMA is seated on the picnic table, half listening to CATHY’s chatter.
2. ALABAMA and CATHY are walking to class. ALABAMA is beginning to look uninterested, and only is reacting with non-committal reactions
3. ALABAMA and CATHY are seated in class. ALABAMA has completely forgotten about CATHY who is still talking. CATHY then begins to try and get ALABAMA’s attention again.

CUT TO:

INT. CLASSROOM – DAY

ANGLE ON – EMILY AND ALABAMA

Both girls are looking straight ahead, before turning to look at each other with an “oh my god we’re so stupid” look.


CUT TO:





INT. LUNCHROOM – DAY

TOM and ALABAMA are in the lunch line. As TOM turns around with his PLATE OF WAFFLES, ALABAMA grabs TOM’s arm harshly.

ALABAMA
Don’t fight about waffles.

TOM
(long sigh)
Okay.

CUT TO:

EXT. COURTYARD – DAY

CATHY is seated at the same picnic table ALABAMA had been in the morning. We see her talking to people who are paying absolutely NO attention to her. EMILY walks over to CATHY.

EMILY
Shut up!

CATHY stares at EMILY, stopping in mid sentence before she shuts her mouth.


INT. CLASSROOM – DAY

EMILY and ALABAMA sit side-by-side, exaggeratedly happy while the rest of the class sits around them, pissed off. TOM is spinning a fork between his fingers like a baton, and CATHY has her hand over her mouth, as if afraid to speak.