Presence
I hate my new clock. It seems, like, during the night the blaring red lights always blind me. Whenever it hits 2:24 AM I am instantly woken by something; some presence. I guess it’s not the clock’s fault that I always wake up, but it’s nice to have a scapegoat. It’s myself that I should be worried about. This has been going on for about 3 months now. Ever since Fred died, I can never get a good night’s sleep. I always wake up and am underwater. I can swim and breathe so it’s not a nightmare and I’m never in a panic. There are all these squids and penguins and turtles swimming all around me. Then I can start to faintly see Fred and I get that knot in my stomach again. The same one I had when I found him dead. And then he starts to swim towards me and even though I’m underwater I can feel myself cry. I can start to smell his favorite food as he gets closer. Then when he’s within arms length I reach out to grab him. Right when he’s in my grasp I wake up, and am in my bed with that same stupid clock. I loved Fred, he was a great, no, the best goldfish.
-Daniel Dwyer, 12th
I hate my new clock. It seems, like, during the night the blaring red lights always blind me. Whenever it hits 2:24 AM I am instantly woken by something; some presence. I guess it’s not the clock’s fault that I always wake up, but it’s nice to have a scapegoat. It’s myself that I should be worried about. This has been going on for about 3 months now. Ever since Fred died, I can never get a good night’s sleep. I always wake up and am underwater. I can swim and breathe so it’s not a nightmare and I’m never in a panic. There are all these squids and penguins and turtles swimming all around me. Then I can start to faintly see Fred and I get that knot in my stomach again. The same one I had when I found him dead. And then he starts to swim towards me and even though I’m underwater I can feel myself cry. I can start to smell his favorite food as he gets closer. Then when he’s within arms length I reach out to grab him. Right when he’s in my grasp I wake up, and am in my bed with that same stupid clock. I loved Fred, he was a great, no, the best goldfish.
-Daniel Dwyer, 12th
Chapter One: Realization Grimm
Run. That’s all that I had to do. Keep running. The shelves and rack of bins of food, they all flew past me, without even looking. It was all just a blur. I just knew that I had to get away from the one that was chasing me, the one that knew my secret and hoped to destroy me. So all I did was run. He he he he he he he ………. His laughter echoed throughout the warehouse. God, where does this building stop? Where does it end? It seemed to be never ending. Like the walls themselves are running away from me. Well, if I cannot out run him, for I know he would chase me forever, I’ll hide from him. Jump! Right on to the next step, to the shelf above me. If I could just get up I could take a break. I could rest. How long will I be able to run like this? I can’t breathe. He’ll hear my breathing. Now if I could just pull myself up. If I could just find a place to rest and find my breath again… Something’s got me! A hand has grabbed my own and is pulling my upward. I stop a scream rising in my throat. I will not give him that satisfaction. Never again will I be his entertainment. But it is not him. His hand is not a soft chocolate brown, its pasty white. Not even knowing if I have encountered a friend or an enemy, I relax into their grip, allowing myself to be pulled up. I’d rather face a new enemy then fall into the hands of the one that was chasing me. Some deaths really are better than others. But in truth, I had nothing to be afraid of. He was a child, the hand that pulled me up. A boy, no more then 13, black, with the strongest look of defiance on his face. He quickly pulled me to the shadows, taking me out of the light. At that point I passed out…. I awoke later to see walls of bins all around me, as well as three boys, two black, one white, the oldest being my own age and the youngest being about ten. This surprised me. Why would there be a bunch of boys in a place like this? They could get hurt. All of them seemed to work quietly, not making any sound what so ever. I began to stand when one of the boys walked over to me. He looked the eldest, a tall black boy of about eighteen or nineteen, came over to kneel next to me. I flinched at the movement but decided that there was no harm intended at the moment, so I relaxed. Or at least I tried to, relaxing isn’t something that I have ever had much practice with. I looked at him the same way that he looked at me; with suspicion and contempt. We knew not each other, and for me to be in his place, and I in his, was situation that could be bad for both of us. He was handsome. Were he white he would not be as handsome. And when I looked into the black pits of his eyes I got lost in the intelligence and the hate that was mixed in there. It was astonishing. “Who are you?” I was surprised not by the moment of the question, but the question itself. Who could not know of me? I was the beginning of time and the end of life. I was the one that brought forth the mountains and the seas and the birds. But, I realized, none of that mattered here. Here, I was an unknown. “I am Anna. I am a friend.” Was I? I wondered. I knew nothing of these people and what they were doing here. They could just as well be the same as Him, cold and blood thirsty. “No, you have to earn the title of friend here. And I care not for your name, but for your business and your purpose.” Interesting. This lad was a man. I can talk to men. “My business is my own, but my purpose is to get as far away from that hellish creature that runs this place. Show me the way out, or let me be. I care not.” I looked him straight in the pits of his eyes, bring forth the bravery that I felt when I denied Him. Even though I said I did not care, I wished to stay with them. I was not yet at full health, and to have someone watching my back would be an unaccounted for pleasure. |
There was silence between us, both of us weighing the odds with each other, testing the others worth and checking our own morals along the way. The two small boys sat in the corner, eyes wide, watching us. This was not their battle, and they knew it.
“You can stay” His voice startled me in the mountain of silence that was everywhere. “You can stay, only because to let you find your way out would be death. There is no way out.” The two boys, who were clearly not surprised by the last fact but overjoyed by the decision, rushed over to me, pushing the eldest away. “I’m Rubin,” said the white. “I’m Nathan,” said the little black boy. “The tall one is Vince, he’s the boss ‘round here but don’t worry he’s really nice….” “Ya, like the other day he found a whole box of sugar cereal…” “And he let us have all of it! Can you believe it…” “Hey, where you from?” “Are you from the outside?” “We haven’t been outside in a long time, but Vince…” “…tells us these amazing stories about flying metal ships and….” “Boys!” Silence descended quickly. “You have chores to do.” There, again, his voice surprised me. It was a soft spoken command, a sound that men would follow into battle, a voice that men would die for. “Yes, Vince!” “Right away, Vince!” “Hey, I’ll race ya to the corner.” “You’re on!” And with that they were gone. I was left alone with this Vince person. I stood to my feet. If he did plan on hurting me then I would make sure he felt it tomorrow and the day after. I was a fighter if nothing else. But he did not lunge or swing at me or make any gestures at all. He simply looked at me. So I looked back. “Where are you from?” His voice was quieter now, less threatening then when he had first spoken to me but more weary them the voice he used on the boys. I was ready for it this time, nor was I surprised by the question. I seemed like there really was no way out. I was in a corner and now I had to fight or be played like a mouse. “California.” “California…” He said it like it was a long lost word that he had suddenly found. It was then confirmed that he had indeed not been “outside” in a while. The dreamy glaze that covered his eyes spoke of a life that he knew before. My turn. “How long have you been here?” “For a long time. A very long time.” Crap. I had to get out of here fast and here are a couple kids that have been here or never left this place for a really long time and I have to get away. I must have looked panicked, because he turned around. “Follow me” Brianna Grimm, 12th |
Untitled
We used mud as our ink,
And stems as our pens.
The grass was our spongy seat.
No more did the starchy walls
Stunt the color within.
When the trees would speak
Our souls would listen-
Thoughts of beyond would emerge
Like seeds in our heavy brains.
The wind would brush against the
Faceless colors of our race.
The sky saw inside of us like
The feathery dandelions
Aiding us with our wishes.
We used dirt as our advice,
And the sun as our energy drink.
We opened our arms like the
Wings of a lady bug
Letting the breeze take us
Wherever we were
Determined to fit in.
Maya Smoot, 12th
We used mud as our ink,
And stems as our pens.
The grass was our spongy seat.
No more did the starchy walls
Stunt the color within.
When the trees would speak
Our souls would listen-
Thoughts of beyond would emerge
Like seeds in our heavy brains.
The wind would brush against the
Faceless colors of our race.
The sky saw inside of us like
The feathery dandelions
Aiding us with our wishes.
We used dirt as our advice,
And the sun as our energy drink.
We opened our arms like the
Wings of a lady bug
Letting the breeze take us
Wherever we were
Determined to fit in.
Maya Smoot, 12th
You
A symphony, carefully played to me
most of which, withheld teasingly
How I long to unlock, the tame yet serpentine,
the mysterious yet bold
And the luster, of jade green,
that pierces like venom, or shelters like canopy trees
The slight caress, that bridges the gap between us,
a silken sea breeze, yearning, earning, ensnaring
So we, sing, serenade, she
So we, dance, dazed, deviant, dream
M'lady, dare we play, need we wander?
I Leave thee, with Overt knowledge,
of Vast oceans, of Endless desire
Pio Valenzuela, 12th
A symphony, carefully played to me
most of which, withheld teasingly
How I long to unlock, the tame yet serpentine,
the mysterious yet bold
And the luster, of jade green,
that pierces like venom, or shelters like canopy trees
The slight caress, that bridges the gap between us,
a silken sea breeze, yearning, earning, ensnaring
So we, sing, serenade, she
So we, dance, dazed, deviant, dream
M'lady, dare we play, need we wander?
I Leave thee, with Overt knowledge,
of Vast oceans, of Endless desire
Pio Valenzuela, 12th
Frost laced the frail branches, trees reaching for the sky with withering arms. It was just me and the frozen dancers and the cool wind, and all I could think about was the day he died, and when the darkness would fade, when I would be released. My lips were stained purple, my skin fading to light blue; my cheeks were pink and my hands were numb. My hair lashed my eyes, brittle from the light snow, and I started to feel the cold, seeping into my forsaken body and clawing at my rotten heart. My tears fell unabashed in this forgotten hell; they crawled lazily across my face, painted red by pain, black by confusion, gray by forbidden hope. I saw the girls who had been in my place, girls that had thought they were in love, girls who had always been there, whispering in my ears, crying to me not to go further. Now they watched, screaming to me from beneath the powdered surface of the pond. Their palms beat against the glass, but their eyes were dull and sunken deep into their pale faces. They had given up long ago. And soon, my own memories would be with them, my own fingers scraping against the cage. I had believed...and my faith was betrayed. We had been caught in the moment, only to be thrown out the other side, blind and lost. It was his fault. It was his fault because he had left me behind, when he promised to be with me forever. He had abandoned me in this world, when he swore he would always be there to catch me. He had deserted me in my winter “wonderland,” and took with him my love, my fear, and my happiness. Now my only freedom is hidden deep within pain.
Sachi Spaulding, 11th
Sachi Spaulding, 11th
Gabe Evkhanian, 11th
Untitled
Act 1
Scene 3
(Rick and Emma are on a semi crowded beach)
Rick: This is such a nice day, Emma. Thank you for taking me out.
Emma: You said you loved the beach! So i figured-
Rick: (nervous laughter) Oh right, on my profile...
Emma: Your profile was kinda wacky. To tell you the truth, I didn't know if I was going to answer it.
Rick: What else was on it? I made it such a long time ago, I don't remember what I wrote.
Emma: Oh, you know...the obsession with Disney, all of the Pope pictures, the Harry Potter Vomit Jellybeans... do you actually eat those?
(Rick is silent)
What's the matter?
Rick: I need to tell you something and you're not going to be very happy about it.
Emma: Is it the small feet thing? Because I really don't think-
Rick: No. No. Not that. Um....well, my wife made the profile.
Emma: Excuse me?
Rick: She cheated on me and I was very upset.
Emma: Naturally.
Rick: Well, I wanted to get back at her so we made a deal.
Emma: I don't believe this.
Rick: I was allowed to sleep with anyone who answered the ad that she made for me.
Emma: This is crazy.
Rick: She didn't think anyone would answer it because it was so....
Emma: Creepy.
Rick: Yes.
Emma: I don't know what to say.
Rick: I'm sorry, Emma. I really am.
Emma: So you're not planning on sleeping with me?
Rick: No, this was a terrible mistake. I love my wife.
Emma: Then you can walk your ass home.
Maya Smoot, 12th
Kelsey Domer, 11th
Fluffy
I sat alone on the kitchen table as the sun peeked through the curtains. It was a beautiful sunrise but I missed it. Instead I just sat there, the gun on the table beside me, loaded and ready. My husband, Neil Armstrong, had just set out on a long journey far away from me. I missed him terribly. The boys were at school learning about the exciting world they will once be a part of. But there I was, trapped in the dark and empty house. Of course there were other women in their kitchens thinking the exact same thoughts.
I picked up the gun and rubbed the cold metal. ‘How did it get this way? It’s not fair, not fair at all!’ I thought to myself, ‘I want to leave this house and explore the world, explore the entire solar system dagnabit!’ Then my white cat, Fluffy, came in the room and sat on the tile floor.
“What do you want?” I yelled.
It just stared into my wet eyes.
“I hate you!” I screamed and pulled the trigger.
When the boys came home they found their mother crying on the doorstep. She hugged them and explained that the cat had run away. They had always wondered why this troubled her so deeply. They had no idea.
Sarah Vaughn, 12th
I sat alone on the kitchen table as the sun peeked through the curtains. It was a beautiful sunrise but I missed it. Instead I just sat there, the gun on the table beside me, loaded and ready. My husband, Neil Armstrong, had just set out on a long journey far away from me. I missed him terribly. The boys were at school learning about the exciting world they will once be a part of. But there I was, trapped in the dark and empty house. Of course there were other women in their kitchens thinking the exact same thoughts.
I picked up the gun and rubbed the cold metal. ‘How did it get this way? It’s not fair, not fair at all!’ I thought to myself, ‘I want to leave this house and explore the world, explore the entire solar system dagnabit!’ Then my white cat, Fluffy, came in the room and sat on the tile floor.
“What do you want?” I yelled.
It just stared into my wet eyes.
“I hate you!” I screamed and pulled the trigger.
When the boys came home they found their mother crying on the doorstep. She hugged them and explained that the cat had run away. They had always wondered why this troubled her so deeply. They had no idea.
Sarah Vaughn, 12th
Jasmine Tea With Bagels
The story of my birth had always been shrouded in mystery; an aspect of my life I decided was best left undisturbed. I suppose I had always secretly hoped I would, could forget. That perhaps with each passing year, the knowledge and subsequent pain that I was burdened with would blanch and I would summon the strength to break free from her grasp. She gave life to me; I dwelled within her for nine months, protected in her womb, nurtured through the lifeline that connected us, two bodies, under the most phenomenal circumstance. Yet I did not even know her name. References such as “She”, “Her” and “Birth Mother” added distance to our relationship and served as solemn reminders that she was indeed a stranger. Countless nights in my youth had been spent probing my memory in the hope that I could dredge up some sort of pre-verbal recollection of this woman who was both my creator and my torturer. Some days, I longed to reach out to her and restore the intimacy that was lost between us while on others I blamed her for my own shortcomings and pushed her away. I yearned to love her, my mother, but could not shake the ever-present sense of rejection and dismissal. She was an enigma: bewildering and impalpable. As a little girl, I revered her as sacrosanct. Perhaps Mulan was my mother, brave and intelligent, or Quan Yin, the beautiful goddess whose jade figurine I was given as a baby to protect me on my long journey to the Occident. I searched for her everywhere I went, positive she would find me and claim me as her own. But she never did. I desperately sought the knowledge that she indeed loved me; that I was not merely a mistake tarnishing her life’s path. I remember distinctly, forming a firm attachment to the story of Moses which we read in the Hagadah every Passover. He too was unable to be kept by his natal mother, yet she loved him and wanted the best for him, sending her baby out on the Nile so that he would have a chance at freedom. Was this what my mother’s mindset was when she placed me on that crowded Shanghai street in late summer thousands of years later? Did she want me to have a chance at a life I’d otherwise be denied if she kept me? My adoptive parents, whom I love dearly, have always inspired this positive perspective of my birth mother. Love rather than incompetence was her reason for placing me on that city street. Did she cry? Did she return the next day to make sure I had been found? These are all questions I will likely carry until the day I die. My current residence of Ukiah California is a far cry from the crowded metropolis that was Shanghai where I was born. Old photographs taken thirty years ago, yellowed and bent at the corners depict the tops of dirty apartment buildings, their small balconies draped with clothes fluttering manically in the wind. My adoptive parents recall fondly the moment they were brought up the steep, winding staircase of the orphanage and taken to my crib where I slept peacefully, bundled up in my five layers of clothes; the room was unheated save for a large pot bellied stove at the center of the room. That cold winter day, we both gained a family. Upon my adoption, I was given two new cultures: Jewish and American. I can remember clearly the day I obtained my American citizenship. I was four and we went to an office in San Francisco, where they took my picture, congratulating me and handing me a small American flag. I waved it the entire ride back, not truly understanding the significance of this occasion and how incredibly lucky I was. From then on I was first and foremost an American. I had simply just arrived at this point from a different angle than most of my peers. My parents made sure I was aware of my unique story from an early age, yet three decades of trying to come to terms with my past has not eased the anguish that overcomes me whenever I feel Her absence. I felt this especially during the time I was preparing for my Bat Mitzvah, the Jewish rite of passage. As I read from the Torah, I realized that this was the most important achievement of my life so far and She was not there to see it. Tears welled up in my eyes as I thanked everyone including her for their various roles in helping me reach that stage in my life. Later on when I was in the eighth grade, I decided to dig up my dad’s old videotape profiling my parents’ trip to China when they were allowed to come get me. My favorite part was when he filmed the train ride. It was along the countryside of rural Hunan province as they made their way down the coast to Shanghai. Farmers toiled in flooded rice paddies with oxen attached to yokes. In the background were those beautiful mountains unique to China, where fog intertwined itself as they reached the heavens. On especially misty mornings on my way to school, we would pass by the California hills with fog rolling over them and I couldn’t help but be reminded of the video clip. Did my mother enjoy foggy mornings? Did the austere mountains instill a sense of tranquility within her as well? As I grew older, these sorts of odd questions began to nag at me increasingly more often along with the much larger questions regarding my perceived similarities to her. Growing up in a trans-racial household, I had no one to affiliate my phenotypic appearance with since my parents were both Caucasian. Peers made tactless comments on the shape of my eyes and other features that distinguished me as different from them. Their words stung and I can still remember coming home crying because someone had made fun of my “squinty” eyes. |
My problem was that I attended schools where Asians were heavily in the minority and although I still made good friends, there was always this racial barrier between us. The fact that I wasn’t even sure of my own heritage made my identity crisis even worse and I rebelled out of frustration, seeing no other outlet in which to dispel the ever present feeling of isolation. After a turbulent adolescence, I emerged into the realm of adulthood. My days of sneaking out to go smoke cigarettes behind the big oak tree a couple of streets down from us were long past. My cropped purple-streaked hair was now shoulder-length shiny ebony and I had taken all my piercings out after a bad infection had placed me in the hospital. Two years spent at the JC had steered me back on track and at the ripe old age of twenty, I moved out of my parents’ house to continue at UC Davis. Again I felt myself utterly lost, yet for reasons that completely contradicted my previous sense of disorientation. For the first time in my life my own people surrounded me. I had frequently attempted to fathom what my mother’s adolescence and young adulthood had been like growing up in a society where everyone else was the same as her. Was this a taste of what she had experienced? I felt connected to her through them. These students, with eyes like half moons so similar to my own, were the missing link between my mother and me. Yet I quickly discovered that although I appeared to be the same, I was in fact, incredibly different. Bagels and lox was my go-to snack of the day, while they enjoyed ramen and tofu. I had frequented the nearby Chinese restaurant with my parents on Friday evenings before Shul and that was the extent of my experience with Chinese culture. I laugh to remember my first boyfriend of Chinese descent looking at me like I was crazy when I ate his grandmother’s homemade lemon chicken with a fork and put sugar in my tea. In the midst of his assortment of Asian friends, I felt like a wolf in sheep’s clothing – a very lonely and insecure wolf. Try as I might I could not live up to the ethnic standards of my people. I had no idea what Asian parents were like, for one thing. I had grown up in a house with Jewish baby-boomer hippies who rocked out to Bob Dylan and gave me pastrami sandwiches on rye. One of my Japanese friends, Becky, once tried to share an inside joke with me while having lunch with a group of friends both Asian and not in the Italian restaurant we frequented. “My dad seriously calls me up almost every day, just to make sure my GPA is up to his standards. He always says, ‘Good grades lead to good life’, which is just his way of implying that if I’m not a doctor I will disappoint the family. What’s new?” She rolled her eyes and the others chuckled. “Sarah, you know what I’m talking about right?” She looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to laugh and agree that yes, Asian parents were like that, my own gave me talks identical to hers. I envied the culture that she was blessed with yet mocked and rejected. “No, I actually don’t. My Chinese parents opted not to keep me.” I stated looking down at the spaghetti on my plate as I stabbed it with my fork. “Oh yeah I forgot! I’m sorry! Ha-ha, well consider yourself lucky. Chinese parents are insane!” She tried to atone for her insensitivity but failed. I half smiled and left. After that, my frantic need to be accepted by my race all but ceased and I decided that perhaps I fit nowhere. I had magically thought, that in the midst of this assortment of youths like myself, I could camouflage perfectly and be just like any other Asian girl; as though my arduous past could be erased and masked by my chameleon antics. In truth however, this sudden immersion into Chinese culture served to only exaggerate my feeling of isolation and exile. My mother had cut me deep and pretending otherwise did nothing but exacerbate the wound. I felt torn between cultures, not fully conforming to the Jewish, American or Chinese parts of me. There was simply not enough of me to go around. Was there anyone else who knew my plight? I assumed for a long time, that no one else could possibly understand the identity issues I was facing. And then I met Him. First year of medical school at Johns Hopkins University, my life changed forever. While sitting at my seat in Chemistry, a young man walked towards me, his eyes downcast and his hands shoved firmly in his jean pockets. He took the open seat next to me and I snuck a quick glance at him before returning to my studies. He was magnificently beautiful. He too was compiled of many cultures, though unlike me, it showed clearly through his appearance. Hazel green irises hid shyly beneath the almond-shaped eyelids unique to our race. His nose was prominent and specked with freckles, yet straight and rounded. I had never spoken to this man. Not once. But I instantly knew that he shared my burden of being defined by multiple cultures, multiple identities. I found solace at that moment. There was someone else for the first time in my life that could comprehend the challenges that I was dealing with. This was a high expectation to put on a stranger, but he didn’t disappoint. Countless dates later, he asked me to stay with him forever and I said yes, knowing that we would no longer be defined by our cultures, but rather by each other. Elizabeth Eisenstark, 11th |
It's the beginning of spring
Time to sow these small brown things
A little water is all they need
As the sprout grows you notice the beauty of the seed
The green sprout grows so fast it seems to zoom
Soon enough it will bloom
Rick Tagessell, 10th
Am
I think I know
who I am,
or is it what I am?
I think I know
that tomorrow I
will try to be
a me
I think I know
Where will I go?
Places far?
Somehow I’ll know
when I’m there.
Where am I now?
I think I know
But where to go?
Pio Valenzuela, 12th
I think I know
who I am,
or is it what I am?
I think I know
that tomorrow I
will try to be
a me
I think I know
Where will I go?
Places far?
Somehow I’ll know
when I’m there.
Where am I now?
I think I know
But where to go?
Pio Valenzuela, 12th
Hurt Not
Humanity steals, it does not borrow
What they will have today but not tomorrow.
Some claim humanity is not to blame
Yet Mother Nature screams with pain.
The Trees will fall and grass will burn
Still the humans do not learn.
What's on this Earth we all must share
Hurt not- or the Earth will tear.
Sarah Vaughn, 12th
Humanity steals, it does not borrow
What they will have today but not tomorrow.
Some claim humanity is not to blame
Yet Mother Nature screams with pain.
The Trees will fall and grass will burn
Still the humans do not learn.
What's on this Earth we all must share
Hurt not- or the Earth will tear.
Sarah Vaughn, 12th
We’re all born, our birth year carved into us. Engraved with liberty. Our home is the United States of America. Our history is behind us; we always face forward. We come into the world new, clean, fresh. That is the time we are cherished. As we grow old, dirty, and stained, people don’t notice us, drop us, and try to get rid of us.
Ever since I was born, and found, I’ve been cherished by one. She kept me, and I watched over her for many years.
It started with a clock; tall, mahogany, sturdy. I heard the familiar voice of the clerk, low, like the bass of a car, raspy from years of smoking and old age. His veins held up the skin that draped over his knuckles, the crevasses on top of his hands like valleys. I slid across the counter, and she picked me up. Her hands were silk, the skin on them pulled evenly across. She wore no rings.
The clock: her grandfathers. Sold. Retrieved.
I was with her for years. She was alone. Her heart possessed a hole that nothing seemed to fill. No book, magazine, desk, chair, china set, glass, clothing, food, hat, jewelry, or game. The clock and I never knew if we helped fill that hole. She would sit, and watch us. Her eyes following the pendulum side to side. The look she gave me I will never be able to describe, but it was not a happy one. I didn’t realize how much I needed that look every day, how I cherished it, until that day came.
Alone. Meaningless. Sad. Confused.
Gone.
A sidewalk.
He walked by me; I know he saw I was there, watching him. He slowly paced backwards. His large, callused hand picked me up. My year made me special to him.
January 10th, 1992. A bed. White sheets. Sky blue curtain enclosing them. Them: A son, a daughter, a husband. There was a distant beep in the background. They held her hands; they held each other. This was as close as they could get to “Saying goodbye”. She slept. The shrill beeping tone became one long sound.
The end of my life: on top of a stone.
He walked me slowly up to the stone. It was carved smoothly, carefully.
It read, “Georgia Turner. 1912-1992. A friend, a mother, a wife.”
He smoothed me, read my lettering over and over again. Studied me. Quietly, he set me down on the stone, heads up for good luck.
Jessica MacCarthy, 9th
Ever since I was born, and found, I’ve been cherished by one. She kept me, and I watched over her for many years.
It started with a clock; tall, mahogany, sturdy. I heard the familiar voice of the clerk, low, like the bass of a car, raspy from years of smoking and old age. His veins held up the skin that draped over his knuckles, the crevasses on top of his hands like valleys. I slid across the counter, and she picked me up. Her hands were silk, the skin on them pulled evenly across. She wore no rings.
The clock: her grandfathers. Sold. Retrieved.
I was with her for years. She was alone. Her heart possessed a hole that nothing seemed to fill. No book, magazine, desk, chair, china set, glass, clothing, food, hat, jewelry, or game. The clock and I never knew if we helped fill that hole. She would sit, and watch us. Her eyes following the pendulum side to side. The look she gave me I will never be able to describe, but it was not a happy one. I didn’t realize how much I needed that look every day, how I cherished it, until that day came.
Alone. Meaningless. Sad. Confused.
Gone.
A sidewalk.
He walked by me; I know he saw I was there, watching him. He slowly paced backwards. His large, callused hand picked me up. My year made me special to him.
January 10th, 1992. A bed. White sheets. Sky blue curtain enclosing them. Them: A son, a daughter, a husband. There was a distant beep in the background. They held her hands; they held each other. This was as close as they could get to “Saying goodbye”. She slept. The shrill beeping tone became one long sound.
The end of my life: on top of a stone.
He walked me slowly up to the stone. It was carved smoothly, carefully.
It read, “Georgia Turner. 1912-1992. A friend, a mother, a wife.”
He smoothed me, read my lettering over and over again. Studied me. Quietly, he set me down on the stone, heads up for good luck.
Jessica MacCarthy, 9th