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Topic Started: Nov 26 2009, 12:15 AM (36 Views)
la-vida-loca	Nov 26 2009, 12:15 AM Post #1
Låt den rätte komma in Posts: 2,017 Group: Elite Members Member #13 Joined: December 3, 2007	All Hallows Eve The night was young. Well, sort of. Six at night was hardly even considered dusk, though the crisp leaves that littered the sidewalk and the setting sun certainly qualified it so. Melissa kicked up the leaves as she wandered down the quiet sidewalks, Anberlin blaring in her ears and the stormy weather above her head reflecting her tumultuous mood. She didn’t even bother looking for neighbors to greet. Most of them were inside when threatening weather hung over the small town. She herself would have been at home, but home wasn’t exactly an option. She sighed and walked into the small diner, the only one in her town. She glanced at the Halloween decorations on her way in. Nothing special, painted Draculas on the window and hay bales on the outside, orange and black streamers, pumpkins and little napkin ghosts haunting tables on the inside. She wandered up to a stool and sat at the counter. “Hey Mr. Porter,” she greeted, slumping into the seat. A man, Sam Porter, wearing an old, worn, rather baggy cat costume and presumably nothing else turned from his dish cleaning and shot her a grin from behind his mascara whiskers and lipstick nose. “Why hello Melissa!” he said cheerfully, “Wonderful weather we’re having, huh?” he asked politely, sending her a smile. She smiled wanly back at him. “Oh yeah,” she said, pulling out her earphones and propping her elbows on the counter. She rested her head in her hands before continuing, “But it’s about time it rained,” she said sarcastically, shrugging. “Mmm,” he muttered, nodding. “You okay?” he asked, furrowing his brow in concern. Melissa rolled her eyes. “Yeah, mom and dad just got into a fight again,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. Mr. Porter shook his head. “That’s too bad, hun,” he said soothingly. Melissa shrugged. A year ago, she would have cried, bawled her eyes out over the thought of raised voices and broken glass. Instead, all she could bring herself to do now was sigh and, if she was especially energetic, shrug. “I guess,” she muttered, before she could stop herself. Sam shook his head and tsked. “It’s terrible and you know it,” he said seriously. “I’m kind of getting used to it,” Melissa murmured. He shook his head. “I don’t think so, hun,” he said sadly. Melissa sighed. “So what’s with the cat costume?” she asked him, changing the subject and giving him a half-assed smile. Sam didn’t buy it, but he took the bait for Melissa’s sake. “Oh, this? It’s nothing really,” the diner owner shrugged, “My mom sent it. You know her, still thinks I’m three,” he said, grinning mischievously at her. Melissa smiled. “But why are you wearing it? I mean, I get the whole ‘gay and proud’ thing, but it’s like, two weeks before Halloween, and…a cat? Seriously?” she asked him, grinning, “Isn’t that a bit much?” “I don’t judge what you wear, you don’t judge what I wear,” he joked, putting a wet cloth on the counter. Melissa laughed. “Please, this sweatshirt is amazing! You know you want it,” she said. “Well, it certainly embodies Halloween, what with all the cute little skulls,” he said, nodding at them. Melissa glanced down. The “cute little skulls” grinned upside down at her, and she in turn grinned as well. “They are, aren’t they?” she asked, more to herself than him. She looked up at him, “So are you guys open now or what?” She glanced at her stomach as it rumbled hungrily in agreement. Sam shook his head sadly. “Sorry darling,” he said, “You know that we’ve been closing early every October these past years,” he reminded her, beginning to wipe down the rather ugly tan counter. Melissa sat up and pulled her elbows out of the way of the wet towel. “Yeah, why’d you guys start doing that, anyway? It’s really a bummer, I used to love coming here at like, ten at night,” Melissa said, watching the washcloth as though mesmerized. Sam chuckled in a humorless way. “I know, babe,” he said, eyes downcast, “I know.” Melissa shot him a curious look. She shook her head and sighed, glancing up at the clock over Sam’s head. “Oh, crap,” she muttered, her eyes darkening as she turned her gaze to her hands in her lap, “I should probably get going. Mom’ll be pissed if I’m late coming home again…Even if she has another black eye.” She shot Sam an apologetic look. He only smiled at her half heartedly, sadness in his eyes. Without a second glance, Melissa hoisted herself off the stool and wandered out of the diner, putting her earphones back in her ears and turning her music up. --- Sam watched Melissa leave. He watched cautiously as leaves swirled around her feet when she walked and as she disappeared from his view. He craned his neck to get one last look, to see her one last time. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t see even a tell-tale sign of her cute charcoal-gray sweatshirt, and he let out a heavy sigh, returning to cleaning his counter. He wouldn’t be able to see her for another year, and he silently wondered if he was the only one who even knew of her annual visits, if even she herself wondered where she disappeared to between appearances. He glanced over at the day’s newspaper that he’d been reading before Melissa had come in, and then quickly glanced away from it, tears stinging his eyes. He didn’t have to read the title again, nor the article for that matter. It was already impressed in his mind, the whole story memorized, from headline to “See Death, Page A5.” “Three Year Anniversary of Local Teen’s Death” it read, in large, bold, black letters, followed by the tiny print, “Three years to the day after the horrendous murder of Melissa Trescott, the townspeople of Sagewood, Washington, still remember her glowing smile, and even her favorite outfit, her charcoal-gray sweatshirt and dark Paris denim jeans, the ones she was wearing the day she was found in the woods, four days after her parents filed a missing person’s report…” ---



la-vida-loca	Nov 26 2009, 12:25 AM Post #2
Låt den rätte komma in Posts: 2,017 Group: Elite Members Member #13 Joined: December 3, 2007	Angel of Mercy There’s a motorcycle ahead of us. Really far ahead of us. I glance at you, watching your eyes watch the road, your entire body at attention, a giddy soldier on the first day of duty. I sigh and look out the passenger side window, deciding that motorcycle tail lights are not the most exciting thing to stare at. Instead I set my sights out to the night, noticing scarce, darker spots on the desolate landscape that could only be cacti. That or aliens. I want to smile at the thought, but I can’t seem to manage such a feat. Instead I sigh. “Where are we?” I ask you finally, my eyes still trained out over the desert night. I almost feel you shrug, even though we’re not touching. I guess it’s best friend ESP or something. “I think we crossed the border into Nevada about an hour ago,” you say, and I turn to see you smiling to yourself. You’re really quite pleased that we even made it this far. When we broke down in the middle of Wisconsin, I thought for sure you’d never smile again. Now we’re in the middle of the dessert, and you’re grinning. And it should be enough for me to smile, to make me return the peppy feeling you’ve had since Utah. I can’t manage to gather that much pep, though. You don’t notice, your eyes are on the road. You’re facing forward, and I’m slumping in my seat. Funny how far things have come, huh? You should be the one sulking. You deserve to be the one sulking. “So are we going to stop in Las Vegas?” I ask. Your smile broadens. “Might as well, I mean, what’s Nevada without Las Vegas?” You finally look at me, and that smile you’ve been wearing slips ever so slightly. “Hey, what’s wrong?” you ask me, but I just shake my head and grimace, though it was supposed to be a smile. “Tired,” I shrug, and you just nod before turning back to the road. It’s true, I am tired. You know it, since I was driving for almost three days straight. But you needed your rest, and I would be damned if I had woken you and found that you couldn’t wake. I just…I wouldn’t have been able to take it. It’s kind of funny…in an ironic sort of way. I’m not the one who’s sick, dying. You are. I’ve taken the news harder than you have, though. I was the one to propose this cross-country trip we’ve always wanted to take. I am the one who silently cries, locked in the bathroom of the hotel rooms we’ve stayed in. But you, you smile. There are no tears from you, no fits, no late nights wondering, wishing, wanting more time. You’re in denial. And I hate you for it. You can pretend nothing’s wrong, live day to day within your own fantastical world, while I suffer my severe, all-consuming grief. I wallow, you soar. It’s almost not fair. I remember when you told me you were sick. My mind went blank, completely. I only stared at you and felt my insides threaten to spill out. It felt a hell of a lot worse than a punch to the gut that is too often tied to shock. I can’t even describe the pure horror when you told me. My world cracked, then and there. You were going to die. You, my best friend, the next door neighbor who I’d shared my lunch with almost every day, who coaxed me into sneaking into the creepy old house down the lane and staying for a night, the best friend who knew more about me than even I did. And you were going to die. You said it with such ease, too. Waving your hand in the air like it was no big deal, like my entire life hadn’t just fallen apart before your eyes. You told me that you had a year to live. A year. With intensive Chemo and many late nights of pain, and you said it with a smile. I could hardly even listen to the foreign words that were pouring from your mouth. And the year passed and went. We were officially seniors at Rosewood Memorial High School, finally on top. You told me that you’d never felt better in your life, told me that the doctors told you that your cancer was in check and in remission. I had my best friend back. Then you had four months. Four goddamn months. --- “Oh, a gas station!” you say suddenly, and I turn to look at you. Your hair’s grown back since chemo three years ago, it’s long, like it was in our kindergarten pictures. I look out over the road and spot the station. “Cool,” I say, and you just nod and smile. Like you have ever since they told you that the cancer was back. They offered you new treatments, intense chemo that could fry your eyeballs out of your head but couldn’t seem to target the rare and elusive ailment. You refused. I think that’s where the denial started. When they told you that you only had four months, absolute tops, to live, you shrugged and said- “You said a year last time, and it’s been almost three years.” -there’s been no arguing with you since. You’d made up your mind, then and there, that they were wrong. --- “You want anything?” you ask, opening your door. I look blankly at you before shaking my head. “No,” I say, unlatching my door as you close yours. You run into the service station, happy as can be, and I shuffle to the gas pump, wrenching open the gas cap on the beat up car that’s only broken down four times so far. --- I begged you to get the treatments, the intense chemo, anything to save you. You were, are, my best friend. You wouldn’t hear it, wouldn’t even listen to me. We fought almost constantly about it, until I…stopped. I just stopped, because I needed to spend your last months by your side, not pushing you further away. You don’t even have a month now. I look over at the gas station and see you chatting up a man four times our age. If I could smile, I would. It’s such a typical “you” thing to do. Instead, I look back at the black hose that’s connected to this clunker of a car. I glance up again, and he smiles at you, but I’m sure he can see what I see. He can see that you’re not well. He can see your tired eyes, can probably smell the bile left on your tongue from the last time you threw up, believing that I couldn’t hear you. He knows that you won’t eat the food you’re buying, that you haven’t eaten anything since Salt Lake City. You pass it off as not being hungry. We know better. --- “He said Las Vegas is about an hour from here!” You announce grandly, holding up the junk food you bought for the trip. I try to smile from where I’m leaning on the car, but you don’t notice. Your smile broadens and you jump into the car, starting it up while I get in. We’re on the road for only a few minutes before you finally notice my silence. I feel you looking at me, but this time it’s me staring straight ahead, trying not to look at you. “What’s wrong?” you ask eventually, and I shake my head. “Nothing, okay?” I ask, shooting you a reassuring smile. It falters instantly, and I know you notice, but you don’t acknowledge it. “It can’t be nothing, you’ve been like this for a while now,” you say, nudging me, “And you were never the quiet one,” you tease, and I tighten my jaw. “Just thinking,” I say, being sure to watch what I say. Because I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, what’s been on my mind since we snuck out of our houses a month ago to take off across the country, even though I know it’ll only infuriate you. An unspoken rule of this whole trip is to not talk about you and your…sickness. But it never occurs to you that I’m thinking about nothing else. It never really occurred to you what I thought, even before you were sick. It’s a flaw in a far from flawless friendship. “About what?” you question, and I sigh. “Nothing,” I manage to get out, before my anger engulfs me and makes me stop talking. You send me a sidelong glance from your position behind the wheel. “We could do this all night, if you want,” you suggest, “I won’t leave you alone until you tell me.” “You won’t want to talk about it,” I say, and you actually laugh. I scowl before I can stop myself. “Fine, I was thinking about you…and your…cancer,” I whisper the last part, hoping you won’t hear. But you do. “I don’t want to talk about that,” you tell me coldly, and I finally look at you, glaring at your stiff form. “Too goddamn bad!” I shout, and I think both you and I are startled by my outburst. But I’m not done there, “You’re dying!” I tell you, and your eyes harden as they observe the road before you. “Like I don’t know that,” you say. I open my mouth, ready to retort, but you interrupt, “and I’m not going to talk about it. I thought we weren’t going to talk about it!” you say, your voice rising, “Why do you care, anyway? It’s not like it’s any of your business, I’m the one dying, as you never cease to point out!” You’re angry now, but so am I. “I’m only your best friend, forgive me for giving a damn!” I shout back, and the car goes quiet. I fold my arms and close my eyes, waiting for the dull ache to leave my body and for sleep to finally take it over. --- You wake me when the signs for Las Vegas become more frequent than the cacti in the sand. You’re excited, giddy again, as though we hadn’t fought at all. And I know you’re in denial again. Perhaps you’ve convinced yourself that you dreamed the whole thing. I don’t know. I’ll never know what goes on in your head, and quite frankly, I don’t want to. “There it is!” you squeal, and I look out over the horizon to see Las Vegas. It’s distant but it’s there. I should smile, like you, but I can’t. I just can’t anymore. I can’t take it. You and your denial, me and my sorrows. What a pair. “Cool,” I say, monotone. You glance at me, your good mood spoiled. Now you know that you hadn’t imagined that fight. And a part of me is glad that I got to burst your bubble. --- The hotel room isn’t grand. Far from it. But it’s all we can afford at this point, and you don’t seem to mind. You’re twirling and laughing, dancing through the rooms. I’m sulking in a chair. “You know, I probably have a lot longer than the doctor’s said I did,” you say suddenly, from where I assume is the bathroom. I glare in the direction of your voice as you continue. “And I feel fine!” I don’t argue. That’d be stupid, we’ll fight again, and with my luck, you’d leave me in Las Vegas. Instead I look out of a window, watching the last remaining sunlight disappear, only to be replaced with the light of a city that never sleeps. Our first day in Las Vegas, and we’ve barely said two words to each other up until this point. It’s almost funny. Almost. You come twirling into the dining room moments later, grinning. “Who knows, I could outlive you!” you say, laughing. This time I manage to smile. It’s small and could hardly even be called a grin, but it’s there and you’ll take it. You smile back and walk out of the room as my “smile” slips from my face. I hear water running, and I finally get up, following the sound into the bathroom. You’re pouring a bath, and you grin when you notice me. You say something. But I can’t even hear it. Instead, all I can concentrate on is you before me. You say you’re fine, but you’re not. Your eyes are bloodshot and sickly, your skin is so pale that I can see the blue veins beneath it, can even work out the intricate little ones that no one is supposed to be able to see. Your voice is raspy, and I can see the one thing that you can’t seem to notice. You are dying. You are in pain. It’s all clear to me, the look of you gives it away. You’ve betrayed me. Lied. Best friends do not do that. You’re still talking to me as you turn off the water. Now though, I’m not listening. Your misery must come to an end, my misery must come to an end. I don’t even realize how this happened. How you ended up in the full tub, fully clothed, with me holding you down, my hands firmly around your throat. You’re screaming underwater, and I finally see the pain in your eyes. The horror, there’s no denying that you’re dying, now. And it’s sickly satisfying, even as I cry, closing my eyes and turning away from your struggle. Because even though you were in denial, even though we both were angry, you are still my best friend. I can’t see you suffer anymore, can’t stand to see your denial, your betrayal. I feel you stop struggling, and I look. Your muscles tense faintly, but then you stop. Your eyes stare almost peacefully up into mine, and I smile slightly, feeling tears sliding down my cheeks. I let go as you finally relax, as the pain and denial and anger leave you. You were my best friend. And I am your angel of mercy. ---



la-vida-loca	Nov 26 2009, 12:28 AM Post #3
Låt den rätte komma in Posts: 2,017 Group: Elite Members Member #13 Joined: December 3, 2007	In the Mafia and Out of Luck One of the worst days of my life was without a doubt the day I was assigned an essay about myself. To say that everything stopped working would be an understatement. The neurons in my brain shorted out and I probably sat there with my mouth hanging open, and with furrowed eyebrows, since that’s what I do when I wonder if the teacher is being serious. But she was. We needed to write about ourselves…or, more specifically, about someone who had been influential on our lives, or who was our role model. Well…turns out I’d been quite critical at America’s Next Top Role Model. No one made the cut, which was totally cool with me. I was pretty lost as a freshman, I didn’t need a role model to distract me when I was being bombarded left and right with ridiculous things like “Freshman Seminar” and a ton (or what was a ton then) of homework, and a desperate need to not write about myself. So when the teacher told us that we needed to write a quick paper about a role model, my mind pretty much blanked. I went home that night with a blank piece of lined paper…we were supposed to have done the assignment in class, but when you don’t have a role model and the teacher won’t take that as an excuse, writing comes to be a difficult task. The paper remained blank all night. I did instead my Algebra homework, my Spanish homework, my Finnish homework, anything so as to avoid writing the un-write-able essay. My parents didn’t understand me, couldn’t quite grasp why I didn’t just make something up, cause, according to them, “the teacher won’t know.” Which was one hundred percent true…but it was too easy. Make something up?! Why do that? It’s supposed to be a true thing, not fiction! Make something easier for myself?! Preposterous! So I put the essay off until the morning. Surprise, surprise, it wasn’t written in the morning, either. But, since we were freshman who apparently had never been assigned homework before, we got an extra day to write the essay in class. We were supposed to hand it at the end of the period…I didn’t. I brought the blank sheet of lined paper home with me. I avoided it like the plague, thinking about it only once in a while to wonder what I could possibly write that could be technically correct but with a hint of fiction, because, well, I wouldn’t have been able to write a paper about a role model without an actual role model. So, stupidly, I asked my parents for help. “What about [insert actor/actress/writer here]” was the response, and when I shot it down, they tried a different person. I believe Shell Silverstein was thrown in somewhere, and though I was a huge fan of his poems…he didn’t make the role model cut. The guy’s a great poet, but I know nothing more about him and quite frankly, I don’t care to. So…that doesn’t a great role model make. To alleviate my writers’ block, I did what any person raging with emotions and impatience would do…I listened to music. And thus, I found my role model! Quite by accident, I realized, I could do a singer! Or a band that I admired! Or…and then I stopped because I realized that, hello! I didn’t exactly idolize any of them. Sure, I liked Black Eyed Peas over P. Diddy, and I liked Fall Out Boy better than Backstreet Boys, but…liking and idolizing/“making a role model out of” are hardly the same thing. So that was massacred by my internal firing squad of doubt and contempt. So, figuring I was screwed, I turned my mind to fiction. Because, when all else fails, try the most ridiculous thing you can think of. Surprisingly, I did. I noticed the volume controller on my boom box. It said “Min” and “Max”. Exciting, I know. But “Max” stands for “Maximum”, which, hello, is a few letters off from “Maximus”. And volume…what kind of name could that be? Vol…umi! Maximus Volumi! And the “i” had a long “e” sound, like Italian. So not only did I have this cool kid with a totally stupid-but-what-I-believed-was-quite-clever name, but I knew a bit about his background. Obviously, with a name like Volumi, he had to have some uncle or something in the mafia, because he was just that awesome. So I was pretty excited, at this point. Max, my role model, had been born. He was 5’7”, weighed…god, I don’t know and I didn’t much care, had black hair, loved music and was always there to help me with my problems (as music often is). I’ve never been so proud of a semi-true paper in all my life. I got an “A”, and the teacher wrote (in almost legible handwriting): “He sounds like a great friend!” and he was. Is. But now I am faced with a different dilemma. I’ve been asked, as is expected, I suppose, as it is high school, to write a personal memoir. When told this, my mind did the “neurons stop firing, mind blanking, eyebrows furrow, wonder if the teacher is being serious” thing. What was I supposed to write about? Some experience that changed me? I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I’m about the same as I was freshman year…well, that’s not true. But I can’t pin that on a certain something in my past (especially since I can’t remember half of it, and the half I do remember, I honestly didn’t feel like writing about or sharing), so I decided “no” to that option. So then it was something that was reflective, or, as my teacher said, something that made me see or notice something in humanity. Or the memoir could not have a point at all, which seemed most likely, but the worst part of the memoir was that it had to be about me. I hate writing about me. I’m not very interesting, or so I think. Life altering experiences? Pretty much none. Not even seeing my favorite band altered me very much. It was an amazing trip, don’t get me wrong, but not very altering or reflective, and quite honestly, I really didn’t want to write about it. Also, I’ve had life-altering stupidity, but I’m not willing to share that. So I was left with…no options what so ever. Pick a topic, about me, and then write a memoir about it. Naturally, I returned to Max…but he wasn’t as useful as he was last time (in the music sense or the role model sense.) So, being the procrastinator I am, I put the essay off for as long as possible. So now, at eleven at night, I’m typing this, trying to figure out what to do. What to say. What shall I write about this time? ---



la-vida-loca	Nov 26 2009, 12:30 AM Post #4
Låt den rätte komma in Posts: 2,017 Group: Elite Members Member #13 Joined: December 3, 2007	Confidence Homicide Help! Oh help, Officer! Quick, over the fence! Arrest me cause I, I’ve shot my confidence! I saw it there, All big brawn and bold, So I took my doubt and, Riddled it with holes! Oh, and please, please! Policeman, law enforcements! Cuff my hands and ring my neck, Cause I’ve shot my confidence! A bang a boom, And it was on the ground! I clung to doubt and Spun myself around! Lost my direction, Couldn’t think straight! I ran and found you and I gotta face my fate. Whoa is me, whoa is me. How could I be so dense? That I gone and shot My dearest confidence!



la-vida-loca	Nov 26 2009, 12:33 AM Post #5
Låt den rätte komma in Posts: 2,017 Group: Elite Members Member #13 Joined: December 3, 2007	The Mask There’s a crack in your mask, But you like it there. You like when the people Stop and stare. You like it there, People try and find The significance of that crack, See the workings of your mind. You like that you're a mystery, As people narrow their eyes, Trying to figure out the crack In your flawless disguise. But all you do is smile, And walk on your merry way. People still try and figure you out, And maybe will one day. For now you let it show To let everyone know That you're hiding something, Someone they may never know. *** and you made it to the end! thanks for reading it all, edits now please!



Esaul	Nov 26 2009, 12:54 AM Post #6
Administrator Posts: 958 Group: Admin Member #1 Joined: November 15, 2007	All Hallows Eve The night was young. Well, sort of. Six at night (it might just be me, but using night again is a bit repetitive in my opinion. And if you’re talking about the night being young, it should be understood that six is at night.) was hardly even considered dusk, though the crisp leaves that littered the sidewalk and the setting sun certainly qualified it so. Melissa kicked up the leaves as she wandered down the quiet sidewalks, Anberlin blaring in her ears and the stormy weather above her head reflecting (something just screams that it should be reflected and not reflecting to me) her tumultuous mood. She didn’t even bother looking for neighbors to greet. Most of them were inside when threatening weather hung over the small town. She herself would have been at home, but home wasn’t exactly an option. She sighed and walked into the small diner, the only one in her town. She glanced at the Halloween decorations on her way in. Nothing special, painted Draculas on the window and hay bales on the outside, orange and black streamers, pumpkins and little napkin ghosts haunting tables on the inside. She wandered up to a stool and sat at the counter. “Hey Mr. Porter,” she greeted, slumping into the seat. A man, Sam Porter, wearing an old, worn, rather baggy cat costume and presumably nothing else turned from his dish cleaning and shot her a grin from behind his mascara whiskers and lipstick nose. (So, the sentence is a bit of a run on, in my opinion, and you don’t have to start it off with a man either. That’s understood when Melissa called him Mr. Porter. Instead, I’d recommend the following: Sam Porter had an old, worn, rather baggy cat costume and end the sentence there. Also, I don’t know if it’s just me, but the presumably nothing else turned from his dish cleaning doesn’t make sense…at least to me.) “Why hello Melissa!” he said cheerfully, “Wonderful weather we’re having, huh?” he asked politely, sending her a smile. She smiled wanly back at him. “Oh yeah,” she said, pulling out her earphones and propping her elbows on the counter. (how could she hear him, if she has Anberlin blaring in her ears at the time? xD) She rested her head in her hands before continuing, “But it’s about time it rained,” she said sarcastically, shrugging. “Mmm,” he muttered, nodding. “You okay?” he asked, furrowing his brow in concern. Melissa rolled her eyes. “Yeah, mom and dad just got into a fight again,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. Mr. Porter shook his head. “That’s too bad, hun,” he said soothingly. Melissa shrugged. A year ago, she would have cried, bawled her eyes out over the thought of raised voices and broken glass. Instead, all she could bring herself to do now was sigh, and if she was especially energetic, shrug. “I guess,” she muttered, before she could stop herself. Sam shook his head and tsked. “It’s terrible and you know it,” he said seriously. “I’m kind of getting used to it,” Melissa murmured. He shook his head. “I don’t think so, hun,” he said sadly. Melissa sighed. “So what’s with the cat costume?” she asked him, changing the subject and giving him a half-assed smile. Sam didn’t buy it, but he took the bait for Melissa’s sake. “Oh, this? It’s nothing really,” the diner owner shrugged, “My mom sent it. You know her, still thinks I’m three,” he said, grinning mischievously at her. Melissa smiled. “But why are you wearing it? I mean, I get the whole ‘gay and proud’ thing, but it’s like, two weeks before Halloween, and…a cat? Seriously?” she asked him, grinning, “Isn’t that a bit much?” “I don’t judge what you wear, you don’t judge what I wear,” he joked, putting a wet cloth on the counter. Melissa laughed. “Please, this sweatshirt is amazing! You know you want it,” she said. “Well, it certainly embodies Halloween, what with all the cute little skulls,” he said, nodding at them. Melissa glanced down. The “cute little skulls” grinned upside down at her, and she in turn grinned as well. (add more description to some of her actions and what not. You’ve said Melissa smiled. How did she smile? Melissa laughed. How did she laugh? Also, don’t be afraid to use ‘she laughed’ either.) “They are, aren’t they?” she asked, more to herself than him. She looked up at him, “So are you guys open now or what?” She glanced at her stomach as it rumbled hungrily in agreement. Sam shook his head sadly. “Sorry darling,” he said, “You know that we’ve been closing early every October these past years,” he reminded her, beginning to wipe down the rather ugly tan counter. Melissa sat up and pulled her elbows out of the way of the wet towel. “Yeah, why’d you guys start doing that, anyway? It’s really a bummer, I used to love coming here at like, ten at night,” Melissa said, watching the washcloth as though mesmerized. (He has a wet towel or a washcloth?) Sam chuckled in a humorless way. “I know, babe,” he said, eyes downcast, “I know.” Melissa shot him a curious look. She shook her head and sighed, glancing up at the clock over Sam’s head. “Oh, crap,” she muttered, her eyes darkening as she turned her gaze to her hands in her lap, “I should probably get going. Mom’ll be pissed if I’m late coming home again…Even if she has another black eye.” She shot Sam an apologetic look. He only smiled at her half heartedly, sadness in his eyes. Without a second glance, Melissa hoisted herself off the stool and wandered out of the diner, putting her earphones back in her ears and turning her music up. --- Sam watched Melissa leave. He watched cautiously as leaves swirled around her feet when she walked and as she disappeared from his view. (you used watched twice, maybe try to find another way to say what you’re trying to say?) He craned his neck to get one last look, to see her one last time. He couldn’t see her, couldn’t see even a tell-tale sign of her cute charcoal-gray sweatshirt, and he let out a heavy sigh, returning to cleaning his counter. He wouldn’t be able to see her for another year, and he silently wondered if he was the only one who even knew of her annual visits, if even she herself wondered where she disappeared to between appearances. (Again, I’d try to find another way of saying what you’re trying to say here instead of using see.) He glanced over at the day’s newspaper that he’d been reading before Melissa had came in, and then quickly glanced away from it, tears stinging his eyes. He didn’t have to read the title again, nor the article for that matter. It was already impressed in his mind, the whole story memorized, from headline to “See Death, Page A5.” “Three Year Anniversary of Local Teen’s Death” it read, in large, bold, black letters, followed by the tiny print, “Three years to the day after the horrendous murder of Melissa Trescott, the townspeople of Sagewood, Washington, still remember her glowing smile, and even her favorite outfit, her charcoal-gray sweatshirt and dark Paris denim jeans, the ones she was wearing the day she was found in the woods, four days after her parents filed a missing person’s report…” (I think saying the one she wore the day she was found in the woods…sounds better to me.)



Esaul	Nov 26 2009, 01:26 AM Post #7
Administrator Posts: 958 Group: Admin Member #1 Joined: November 15, 2007	Angel of Mercy There’s a motorcycle ahead of us. Really far ahead of us. I glance at you, watching your eyes watch the road, your entire body at attention, a giddy soldier on the first day of duty. I sigh and look out the passenger side window, deciding that motorcycle tail lights are not the most exciting thing to stare at. Instead I set my sights out to the night, noticing scarce, darker spots on the desolate landscape that could only be cacti. That or aliens. I want to smile at the thought, but I can’t seem to manage such a feat. Instead I sigh. “Where are we?” I ask you finally, my eyes still trained out over the desert night. I almost feel you shrug, even though we’re not touching. I guess it’s best friend ESP or something. “I think we crossed the border into Nevada about an hour ago,” you say, and I turn to see you smiling to yourself. You’re really quite pleased that we even made it this far. When we broke down in the middle of Wisconsin, I thought for sure you’d never smile again. Now we’re in the middle of the desert, and you’re grinning. And it should be enough for me to smile, to make me return the peppy feeling you’ve had since Utah. I can’t manage to gather that much pep, though. You don’t notice, your eyes are on the road. You’re facing forward, and I’m slumping in my seat. Funny how far things have come, huh? You should be the one sulking. You deserve to be the one sulking. “So are we going to stop in Las Vegas?” I ask. Your smile broadens. “Might as well, I mean, what’s Nevada without Las Vegas?” You finally look at me, and that smile you’ve been wearing slips ever so slightly. “Hey, what’s wrong?” you ask me, but I just shake my head and grimace, though it was supposed to be a smile. (How does the second pov person get the impression something is wrong with the narrator? The second pov person ((assuming it’s a guy)) has his smile slipping slightly…which means the narrator should be the one asking…if that makes sense) “Tired,” I shrug, and you just nod before turning back to the road. It’s true, I am tired. You know it, since I was driving for almost three days straight. But you needed your rest, and I would be damned if I had woken you and found that you couldn’t wake. I just…I wouldn’t have been able to take it. It’s kind of funny…in an ironic sort of way. I’m not the one who’s sick, dying. You are. I’ve taken the news harder than you have, though. I was the one to propose this cross-country trip we’ve always wanted to take. I am (here, I think I’m would sound better) the one who silently cries, locked in the bathroom of the hotel rooms we’ve stayed in. But you, you smile. There are no tears from you, no fits, no late night wondering, wishing, wanting more time. You’re in denial. And I hate you for it. You can pretend nothing’s wrong, live day to day within your own fantastical world, while I suffer my severe, all-consuming grief. I wallow, you soar. It’s almost not fair. I remember when you told me you were sick. My mind went blank, completely. I only stared at you and felt my insides threaten to spill out. It felt a hell of a lot worse than a punch to the gut that is too often tied to shock. (I don’t think you need the ‘that is too often tired to shock there. It doesn’t make sense to me.) I can’t even describe the pure horror when you told me. My world cracked, then and there. You were going to die. You, my best friend, the next door neighbor who I’d shared my lunch with almost every day, who coaxed me into sneaking into the creepy old house down the lane and staying for a night, the best friend who knew more about me than even I did. And you were going to die. You said it with such ease, too. Waving your hand in the air, like it was no big deal, like my entire life hadn’t just fallen apart before your eyes. You told me that you had a year to live. A year. With intensive chemo and many late nights of pain, and you said it with a smile. I could hardly even listen to the foreign words that were pouring from your mouth. And the year passed and went. We were officially seniors at Rosewood Memorial High School, finally on top. You told me that you’d never felt better in your life, told me that the doctors told you that your cancer was in check and in remission. I had my best friend back. Then you had four months. Four goddamn months. --- “Oh, a gas station!” you say suddenly, and I turn to look at you. Your hair’s grown back since chemo three years ago, it’s long, like it was in our kindergarten pictures. I look out over the road and spot the station. “Cool,” I say, and you just nod and smile. Like you have ever since they told you that the cancer was back. They offered you new treatments, intense chemo that could fry your eyeballs out of your head, but couldn’t seem to target the rare and elusive ailment. You refused. I think that’s where the denial started. When they told you that you only had four months, absolute tops, to live, you shrugged and said: “You said a year last time, and it’s been almost three years.” There’s been no arguing with you since. You’d made up your mind, then and there, that they were wrong. --- “You want anything?” you ask, opening your door. I look blankly at you before shaking my head. “No,” I say, unlatching my door as you close yours. You run into the service station, happy as can be, and I shuffle to the gas pump, wrenching open the gas cap on the beat up car, that’s only broken down four times so far. --- I begged you to get the treatments, the intense chemo, anything to save you. You were, are, my best friend. You wouldn’t hear it, wouldn’t even listen to me. We fought almost constantly about it, until I…stopped. I just stopped, because I needed to spend your last months by your side, not pushing you further away. You don’t even have a month now. I look over at the gas station and see you chatting up a man four times our age. If I could smile, I would. It’s such a typical “you” thing to do. Instead, I look back at the black hose that’s connected to this clunker of a car. I glance up again, and he smiles at you, but I’m sure he can see what I see. He can see that you’re not well. He can see your tired eyes, can probably smell the bile left on your tongue from the last time you threw up, believing that I couldn’t hear you. He knows that you won’t eat the food you’re buying, that you haven’t eaten anything since Salt Lake City. You pass it off as not being hungry. We know better. (Who is the “he” and where is it coming from?) --- “He said Las Vegas is about an hour from here!” You announce grandly, holding up the junk food you bought for the trip. I try to smile from where I’m leaning on the car, but you don’t notice. Your smile broadens and you jump into the car, starting it up while I get in. We’re on the road for only a few minutes before you finally notice my silence. I feel you looking at me, but this time it’s me staring straight ahead, trying not to look at you. “What’s wrong?” you ask eventually, and I shake my head. “Nothing, okay?” I ask, shooting you a reassuring smile. It falters instantly, and I know you notice, but you don’t acknowledge it. “It can’t be nothing, you’ve been like this for a while now,” you say, nudging me, “And you were never the quiet one,” you tease, and I tighten my jaw. “Just thinking,” I say, being sure to watch what I say. Because I’ll tell you what I’m thinking, what’s been on my mind since we snuck out of our houses a month ago to take off across the country, even though I know it’ll only infuriate you. An unspoken rule of this whole trip is to not talk about you and your…sickness. But it never occurs to you that I’m thinking about nothing else. It never really occurred to you what I thought, even before you were sick. It’s a flaw in a far from flawless friendship. “About what?” you question, and I sigh. “Nothing,” I manage to get out, before my anger engulfs me and makes me stop talking. You send me a sidelong glance from your position behind the wheel. “We could do this all night, if you want,” you suggest, “I won’t leave you alone until you tell me.” “You won’t want to talk about it,” I say, and you actually laugh. I scowl before I can stop myself. “Fine, I was thinking about you…and your…cancer,” I whisper the last part, hoping you won’t hear. But you do. “I don’t want to talk about that,” you tell me coldly, and I finally look at you, glaring at your stiff form. “Too goddamn bad!” I shout, and I think both you and I are startled by my outburst. But I’m not done there, “You’re dying!” I tell you, and your eyes harden as they observe the road before you. “Like I don’t know that,” you say. I open my mouth, ready to retort, but you interrupt, “and I’m not going to talk about it. I thought we weren’t going to talk about it!” you say, your voice rising, “Why do you care, anyway? It’s not like it’s any of your business, I’m the one dying, as you never cease to point out!” You’re angry now, but so am I. “I’m only your best friend, forgive me for giving a damn!” I shout back, and the car goes quiet. I fold my arms and close my eyes, waiting for the dull ache to leave my body and for sleep to finally take it over. --- You wake me when the signs for Las Vegas become more frequent than the cacti in the sand. You’re excited, giddy again, as though we hadn’t fought at all. And I know you’re in denial again. Perhaps you’ve convinced yourself that you dreamed the whole thing. I don’t know. I’ll never know what goes on in your head, and quite frankly, I don’t want to. “There it is!” you squeal, and I look out over the horizon to see Las Vegas. It’s distant but it’s there. I should smile, like you, but I can’t. I just can’t anymore. I can’t take it. You and your denial, me and my sorrows. What a pair. “Cool,” I say, monotone. You glance at me, your good mood spoiled. Now you know that you hadn’t imagined that fight. And a part of me is glad that I got to burst your bubble. --- The hotel room isn’t grand. Far from it. But it’s all we can afford at this point, and you don’t seem to mind. You’re twirling and laughing, dancing through the rooms. I’m sulking in a chair. “You know, I probably have a lot longer than the doctor’s said I did,” you say suddenly, from where I assume is the bathroom. I glare in the direction of your voice as you continue. “And I feel fine!” I don’t argue. That’d be stupid, we’ll fight again, and with my luck, you’d leave me in Las Vegas. Instead I look out of a window, watching the last remaining sunlight disappear, only to be replaced with the light of a city that never sleeps. Our first day in Las Vegas, and we’ve barely said two words to each other up until this point. It’s almost funny. Almost. You come twirling into the dining room moments later, grinning. “Who knows, I could outlive you!” you say, laughing. This time I manage to smile. It’s small and could hardly even be called a grin, but it’s there and you’ll take it. You smile back and walk out of the room as my “smile” slips from my face. I hear water running, and I finally get up, following the sound into the bathroom. You’re pouring a bath, and you grin when you notice me. You say something. But I can’t even hear it. Instead, all I can concentrate on is you before me. You say you’re fine, but you’re not. Your eyes are bloodshot and sickly, your skin is so pale that I can see the blue veins beneath it, can even work out the intricate little ones that no one is supposed to be able to see. Your voice is raspy, and I can see the one thing that you can’t seem to notice. You are dying. You are in pain. It’s all clear to me, the look of you gives it away. You’ve betrayed me. Lied. Best friends do not do that. (not to be too critical, but how could she not notice this before?) You’re still talking to me as you turn off the water. Now though, I’m not listening. Your misery must come to an end, my misery must come to an end. I don’t even realize how this happened. How you ended up in the full tub, fully clothed, with me holding you down, my hands firmly around your throat. You’re screaming underwater, and I finally see the pain in your eyes. The horror, there’s no denying that you’re dying, now. And it’s sickly satisfying, even as I cry, closing my eyes and turning away from your struggle. Because even though you were in denial, even though we both were angry, you are still my best friend. I can’t see you suffer anymore, can’t stand to see your denial, your betrayal. I feel you stop struggling, and I look. Your muscles tense faintly, but then you stop. Your eyes stare almost peacefully up into mine, and I smile slightly, feeling tears sliding down my cheeks. I let go as you finally relax, as the pain and denial and anger leave you. You were my best friend. And I am your angel of mercy.



Esaul	Nov 26 2009, 01:34 AM Post #8
Administrator Posts: 958 Group: Admin Member #1 Joined: November 15, 2007	In the Mafia and Out of Luck One of the worst days of my life was, without a doubt, the day I was assigned an essay about myself. To say that everything stopped working would be an understatement. The neurons in my brain shorted out and I probably sat there with my mouth hanging open, and with furrowed eyebrows, since that’s what I do when I wonder if the teacher is being serious. But she was. We needed to write about ourselves…or, more specifically, about someone who had been influential on our lives, or who was our role model. Well…turns out I’d been quite critical at America’s Next Top Role Model. No one made the cut, which was totally cool with me. I was pretty lost as a freshman, I didn’t need a role model to distract me when I was being bombarded left and right with ridiculous things like “Freshman Seminar” and a ton (or what was a ton then) of homework, and a desperate need to not write about myself. So when the teacher told us that we needed to write a quick paper about a role model, my mind pretty much blanked. I went home that night with a blank piece of lined paper…we were supposed to have done the assignment in class, but when you don’t have a role model and the teacher won’t take that as an excuse, writing comes to be a difficult task. The paper remained blank all night. I did instead my Algebra homework, my Spanish homework, my Finnish homework, anything so as to avoid writing the un-write-able essay. My parents didn’t understand me, couldn’t quite grasp why I didn’t just make something up, cause, according to them, “the teacher won’t know.” Which was one hundred percent true…but it was too easy. Make something up?! Why do that? It’s supposed to be a true thing, not fiction! Make something easier for myself?! Preposterous! So I put the essay off until the morning. Surprise, surprise, it wasn’t written in the morning, either. But, since we were freshman who apparently had never been assigned homework before, we got an extra day to write the essay in class. We were supposed to hand it at the end of the period…I didn’t. I brought the blank sheet of lined paper home with me. I avoided it like the plague, thinking about it only once in a while to wonder what I could possibly write that could be technically correct but with a hint of fiction, because, well, I wouldn’t have been able to write a paper about a role model without an actual role model. So, stupidly, I asked my parents for help. “What about [insert actor/actress/writer here]” was the response, and when I shot it down, they tried a different person. I believe Shell Silverstein was thrown in somewhere, and though I was a huge fan of his poems…he didn’t make the role model cut. The guy’s a great poet, but I know nothing more about him and quite frankly, I don’t care to. So…that doesn’t a great role model make. (So…that doesn’t make a great role model) To alleviate my writers’ block, I did what any person raging with emotions and impatience would do…I listened to music. And thus, I found my role model! Quite by accident, I realized, I could do a singer! Or a band that I admired! Or…and then I stopped because I realized that, hello! I didn’t exactly idolize any of them. Sure, I liked Black Eyed Peas over P. Diddy, and I liked Fall Out Boy better than Backstreet Boys, but…liking and idolizing/“making a role model out of” are hardly the same thing. So that was massacred by my internal firing squad of doubt and contempt. So, figuring I was screwed, I turned my mind to fiction. Because, when all else fails, try the most ridiculous thing you can think of. Surprisingly, I did. I noticed the volume controller on my boom box. It said “Min” and “Max”. Exciting, I know. But “Max” stands for “Maximum”, which, hello, is a few letters off from “Maximus”. And volume…what kind of name could that be? Vol…umi! Maximus Volumi! And the “i” had a long “e” sound, like Italian. So not only did I have this cool kid with a totally stupid-but-what-I-believed-was-quite-clever name, but I knew a bit about his background. Obviously, with a name like Volumi, he had to have some uncle or something in the mafia, because he was just that awesome. So I was pretty excited, at this point. Max, my role model, had been born. He was 5’7”, weighed…god, I don’t know and I didn’t much care, had black hair, loved music and was always there to help me with my problems (as music often is). I’ve never been so proud of a semi-true paper in all my life. I got an “A”, and the teacher wrote (in almost legible handwriting): “He sounds like a great friend!” and he was. Is. But now I am faced with a different dilemma. I’ve been asked, as is expected, I suppose, as it is high school, to write a personal memoir. When told this, my mind did the “neurons stop firing, mind blanking, eyebrows furrow, wonder if the teacher is being serious” thing. What was I supposed to write about? Some experience that changed me? I don’t know, I’m pretty sure I’m about the same as I was freshman year…well, that’s not true. But I can’t pin that on a certain something in my past (especially since I can’t remember half of it, and the half I do remember, I honestly didn’t feel like writing about or sharing), so I decided “no” to that option. So then it was something that was reflective, or, as my teacher said, something that made me see or notice something in humanity. Or the memoir could not have a point at all, which seemed most likely, but the worst part of the memoir was that it had to be about me. I hate writing about me. I’m not very interesting, or so I think. Life altering experiences? Pretty much none. Not even seeing my favorite band altered me very much. It was an amazing trip, don’t get me wrong, but not very altering or reflective, and quite honestly, I really didn’t want to write about it. Also, I’ve had life-altering stupidity, but I’m not willing to share that. So I was left with…no options what so ever. Pick a topic, about me, and then write a memoir about it. Naturally, I returned to Max…but he wasn’t as useful as he was last time (in the music sense or the role model sense.) So, being the procrastinator I am, I put the essay off for as long as possible. So now, at eleven at night, I’m typing this, trying to figure out what to do. What to say. What shall I write about this time?



Esaul	Nov 26 2009, 01:37 AM Post #9
Administrator Posts: 958 Group: Admin Member #1 Joined: November 15, 2007	Confidence Homicide Help! Oh help, Officer! Quick, over the fence! Arrest me cause I, I’ve shot my confidence! I saw it there, All big brawn and bold, So I took my doubt and, Riddled it with holes! Oh, and please, please! Policeman, law enforcements! Cuff my hands and ring my neck, Cause I’ve shot my confidence! A bang, a boom, And it was on the ground! I clung to doubt and Spun myself around! Lost my direction, Couldn’t think straight! I ran and found you and I gotta face my fate. Woe is me, woe is me. How could I be so dense? That I gone and shot My dearest confidence!



la-vida-loca	Nov 26 2009, 02:05 AM Post #10
Låt den rätte komma in Posts: 2,017 Group: Elite Members Member #13 Joined: December 3, 2007	hahahahaha can't believe i actually wrote "Whoa is me" and missed it the four times i re-read this poem!!! xD thanks again, william! Edited by la-vida-loca, Nov 26 2009, 02:06 AM.


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