• Along the Way
• *~*DrAgOn FiRe*~* 
• Drip
• The Flame
• Getting Away
• Gone
• The Haven
• Juvenile Delinquent
• Mask
• Melancholy Hymn
• New Beginnings
• No Home
• Nora
• The Package
• Perfect Love
• Please Know
• Porcelain
• Questions
• Scaeffa--An Alien's Journal
• Seeing
• Supermodel Looks
• Switch
• Too Easy To Win
• Two Bombs
• Unheard
• Untitled
• Untitled 3
• White as a Corpse
• Why

• How Many Ways To Say Goodbye
• The Inhabitance of Evil within Primarily Good Creatures:  An Essay on Lord of the Flies

• Nerves
• The Package
• Rush of Thoughts
• Satchmo's Warrior
• A Simple Minute
• A So-Called Foolproof Adventure
• Strange Things
• Untitled Short Story
• Untitled Short Story 2

Blue collapsed when you left
me that note. You left
without me! My all is lost
inside your shell. Where too now?
You must know. I scream and the
hollow is rubber, stretching
pounding my everything. Forever
came crashing down the hall,
into a bedroom with posters
and your favorite books.

Please know
My heart is in your hands
It’s nothing that I can recognize
I feel I have no control
When I have your hand,
You have complete power over me.
Please know
My heart is in your hands
When I look in your eyes
I feel like you have total control over me
Please don’t
Look at me like that
Because you know
Your eyes have absolute power over me
Please don’t
Hold my hand so tight
Because in holding my hand
You are taking my heart
Please know
My heart is in your hands
It’s nothing that I can understand.
But please don’t look at me like that
It just makes me want to be with you always.

There's white porcelain
and there's green, yellow, clear sickness
and there's shimmering red blood
that seeps from the broken blood vessels
and there's cream paper
there's my stringy saliva
and there's my olive skin
sliding skillfully down
down, down
to it's depths
before my emptiness
retches
and is gone
and it once gave me happiness
it once made me full
but now,
now it's still just emptiness

The flame shined bright,
The candle stood tall.
The smile on my face,
Was the greatest of all.

So happy,
So glad,
I used to be.
Never a frown,
Nor a tear to see.

Time passed by,
The candle grew smaller,
Laughter diminished,
The shadows grew taller.

The smile is gone,
The cold is here.
The darkness comes,
The warmth disappears.

The candle still stands,
But the flame grows dimmer.
Hope slips away,
My heart gives a quiver.

The fire is weak,
The light is fading.
Feeling so sad,
It's the emotion I'm hating.

Weeks pass by,
Then months,
Then years.
The light still fades,
I cry more tears.

Then comes a time,
When all hope is gone.
I think to myself,
Who killed the sun?

In front of the candle,
I stand,
And I cry.
I think of the time,
There were no tears in my eyes.

Time to go,
I say to myself.
To blow out the fire,
Extinguish the light.
I look at my candle,
What a pitiful sight.

I'll spare it the pain,
Of blowing out by itself.
I'll do the deed,
I take the knife of the shelf.

No, too painful.
I'll do it this way.
I pick up my candle,
And look into the ray.

I draw a deep breath,
And clasp my hands tight.
Now is the time,
To blow out the light. 

She kissed her mom and dad goodbye
And walked out into the rain
She couldn’t help but think about him
Because her heart still ached with pain

She took a bus to the airport
This was a chance she couldn’t miss
She wrote him a letter as one last try
When she finished she sealed the envelope with a kiss

The letter went something like this:

“I know we had our ups and downs
And I know we said we’d let this go
But as I sat here and dried my tears
I thought of something you should know”

If I said that I’d stopped loving you
I didn’t mean it , cause I do
This aching in my heart is telling me
Perhaps I’m missing you

If ever I made you feel like
You weren’t good enough
The truth was I realized how special you were
And accepting that was really tough

So if I didn’t completely ruin
What we had, I’d like to try
To begin again, start anew
I’m sorry if I made you cry”

Eventually the letter got there
When he read it he was overcome
He had all but given up on this girl he loved
He had thought that this was done

For fear of being hurt again
He didn’t pursue it at first
But then he figured he’d choked on tears
And swallowing regrets would be much worse

So he thought about what he could do
And the words that he might say
He found out when she was visiting home
And waited for the day

It’d been awhile and since he didn’t write
She figured he didn’t feel the same
She wondered if she’d see him at all
Her questions were answered when she got off the plane

He was standing there, he looked the same
But no expression crossed his face
He looked confused if anything
She wondered why he’d come to this place

They stared at each other for quite sometime
These were the eyes they both had missed
He said “I got your letter”
And sealed their new beginning with a kiss

Feed myself to the water
It swallows me and brings me down
Eternal grace is ahead
When my lips part
Flowing in like flames of the dead
Cold and harsh and unforgiving
Water runs thicker than gore through my body
Breath runs out
Flood takes over
Close my eyes
Await defeat
Progressions of hydraulic action run over my body
scratching furiously
It’s always hard to love being the victim
 realize this is it, there’s no turning back
My lips again part to scream this time
Nothing comes out and I—
I choke on my own stupidity
Do I still want this to happen?
I think I’m crying, but
I’ve forgotten what it feels like
Do you remember to breathe?
I’ve forgotten what it feels like
Salt from my pores integrates with the water
I swallow it in, still gasping to vocalize my pain
And my tongue grinds it down
Burning like an angel’s tears
But there’s no such thing so they must be mine
My arms and legs go numb
I feign becoming limp so as not to use them
Lying face down on the surface
My last connection to life: the sun
It still scorches me reaching out to pull me back
And some believe, I will be closer to it soon
I will watch the sun on parallel and it watches me back
The clouds shun the blaze
And begin to weep in anticipation of my arrival
Soon I will perch upon them…some believe
The lights shut out and my head refuses to hold itself up any longer
I’m no longer sinking, I begin to levitate
This world has been too glorified
Too wonderful for my expectations
They believe I am sent to a god to be judged
And I think, I’m not killing myself, I was going to die anyway
So I am carried up towards a light
There I will be truly executed
For I am not dead until they kill my soul too
And turning off the light, I go into darkness
No light will shine upon me when I am forgotten
And it is all mine
Click

Laying on the beach,
the sand in my toes,
need a place to relax,
to relieve my anger.
Leave me be, sitting here,
I am a dragon in disguise.
You can see the fire in my eyes.
My breath, like smoke,
smelling like spicy cinnamon,
hot and fresh.
My skin so dry, its scaly.
I am a dragon in disguise

Young desiring to be in love
Becoming enamour for the first time
Craving for all of his attention
Striving for him to observe you

Taking time to confide
Attempting numerous times
To tell him how you feel
Long for him to feel the same way

I look around at myself
And wander the steps of the underworld
These serpents chase and take me home to unknown territory
I lose my footing and fall undisturbed
In dreaming my infatuations
Chased in what direction of what is tamed by these serpents
Chased forever
Not understanding my own sanity
In some ways uninhabited
In some ways undisturbed
Losing my flesh to the serpent eyes of your soul
Chased in what direction
Lost in what cavern
Take me HOME
There is no peace of mind here
No justice
No bad timing
Just unlawful injustices
Of my own heart
Chase your mind, loose your soul
Seizure of what’s been taken
Lost inside your soul
Taken forever
Lost forever
In some ways uninhabited
In some ways undisturbed
Interfere with your toil
End up in grief
Lost
Undisturbed, uninhabited
The serpent eyes watch
And wander as they reach out to you
Stolen
Cravings
 want to go HOME

Why does this poem
Need a metaphor?
Why does everything
I say have to mean
Something else?
Isn't my poem
Good enough? That you
Have to rearrange it
Yourself.

Why is poetry
Put in exams?>Why are we tested
On other peoples' ideas?
And the metaphors
And analysis
And antagonism
They didn't intend for us
To see.

Why does this poem
Need analysing?
Is it so wrong
To say what I mean?
Don't you
Understand my words
Or my sentences
Or my statements
Anyway?

Why does this poem
need enjambement?
A long word
For too short phrases
Could it be because I'm
Too lazy
To use punctuation
Rather than representing
Chaos?

Why does this poem
Mean so much more than
That poem?
If you compare them
You know very little
About poetry
why can't we just learn
To write our own
Poems?

How your eyes lit up like two shivering stars
How your kiss mesmerized my heart
How your gaze captured my soul

Now what's left is a flimsy blueprint in my mind
A sketch of the past's pleasures
The summer's late midnight breeze
And the vague moonlight shining down

Fate can be so cruel
When your lips touched mine.

I do believe I still love you
But does it matter now?
For my heart is now a drifter

And in time will you remember my face?
Can you recapture the past just as well as I can?
Will she sabotage your heart as you did mine?
Will you feel the tears seeping through your heart?
Will you feel your world ripping at the seams?

The obbsessive demand, for your true love, that coils up your world
The mindless rage that bears you down.
The suffering and the torment
The long sleepless nights all thanks to you...

But I do believe I still love you

Love can rape your heart
Until the last dying breath
Then leave you suffering
Helplessly surching for repairs

Scars are implanted forever

Boom.
The bomb drops.
A quiet Sunday morning, December 7th, 1941, 7:50 AM
He is there to see, to hear, to feel.
The vibration slaps his face
like an enemy of the hostile foreign land he fights against,
unlike anyone of the sweet homeland he fights for.

He leaves behind sixteen strenuously slogging siblings,
tiring the hand-me-downs he has already exhausted.
Don’t do a job halfway, he advises,
and trust he won’t,
for he is a man of much detail
but not a man of picky ways;
a man of humble emotion
but not a man with lack of feeling,
because today he feels, he finds it odd--
the day he should have died, he lived.

Boom.
The bomb drops.
A quiet Monday morning, December 2nd, 1996, 11:00 AM
He won’t see, or hear, or feel again.
The vibration stomps through the leaves that have plummeted prematurely, as
he reluctantly deserts an unfinished wife, and unfinished yard, an
unfinished life.
But I can feel today, and I find it odd--
the day he should have lived, he died.

The peircing of soul
The twisting of my heart
The feeling of the unknown
Is tearing me apart

The questions in my head
The reasoning through my eyes
The answers that hide beneath
Whether its truth or lies

When will I know the answers
Over this unmetionable task
They seem to be heart breaking
But I have my reasons to ask

Maybe in years to come
You ' ll look at me and see
The things I saw in you
Maybe you ' ll get out old photo ' s
and look through old memories
and wonder why it didn ' t
ever happen
Maybe time will change your memories
And without the photo ' s
You ' ll remember me as a supermodel
Maybe you 'll forget the bad times
And just remember the good
Maybe in years to come
We ' ll both be far from here
And you ' ll look over your shoulder
And see me
With supermodel looks

When I look out I see,
Nothing but calm teal water,
When I take a breath of air,
And jump in the water,
I get to discover a whole new way,
Of looking at water

Fish dart beside my feet and
Seaweed sway in the current, but
Coral is as still as night

My head comes up for air,
And notices the still water,
Masking what it holds,
Beneath the waves.

I hate the glare
The glare they stare as I walk upon the street
They got that look once too
But, seem to forget they recieved it
I hate the whispers
The whispers I hear as i look upon their glare
They got whispers too
But, now the whispers seem fair and just
I hate the stereo types
the catogory they put me in
For, I am not just a juvenile delinquent

Time has taken its toll
All that's remains is a soul
left in ruins
A heart led astray
Wrecklessly shattered beyond recovery
In the depths of the mind lay
a dust-collecting box of
fading memories
Secrets told, truth behold
Hope is contrary to reason
What was thought to be
a step forward
was really one back
Left alone
Consumed by loneliness
No more wishes
No more fairy tales
The shadow of Hell
is lurking around
The heavens droop with a harsh
reminder that fate is inescapable
Only now does the angel sing
his melancholy hymn

Tears shall trickle into rivers
Woven through the dusty land
Hunger like a serpent biting
Hopes are washed away in sand

Children crying to the heavens
Lord above I pray to Thee
Send to us your sacred angel
Send her forth to rescue me

Falling to the eye of Heaven
Dying by its sunlit blade
By the sands the dead are buried
Graves for innocents are made

Heaven's King has heard their summons
All the world has heard their cry
Heaven sent Peter and Amber
All the land to purify

Such love found between these mortals
Like no other seen on Earth
At its sight the sands retreated
To the grassland giving birth

Peter knelt and forged a garden
Amber caused the streams to flow
From their love and cultivation
What was dying now doth grow

Love rebuilds all devestation
Now the children cry God bless
Love will prove the greatest magic
Perfect love is happiness

A scar on the eye,
Does not allow one to see,
The truth that lies in front of you,
Only what it seems to be,
Reflections often lie,
Because people never see,
The object for what it truly is,
You only see a belief,
A portrait that is painted,
Is never considered as,
Nothing more than that it is,
And not the emotion that it has,
Consumed inside a righteous frame,
The picture looks so clear,
But only those with who really have true sight,
Know that truth is absent here,
When expectations prepare to see,
The depths of empty faith,
They claim the artist is wrong,
But contridictions of the truth,
Is nothing to place honesty on,
What comes from the soul,
Should not be explained,
Accepted as it merely is,
Nothing is one in the same

All day I wonder all day I dream
For something pleasant it would seem.
A chance to get away from schools pressures.
A place where I can escape.
Where I am one and relaxed.
There are no tasks, deadlines, or boundaries.
No one is trying to make me work on a project.
I am free to do what I want.
Memories and happiness is what sets me free.
Being myself, inner peace, and enjoying the silence.
Staying peaceful and stress free is my way of life.
Pressures and conflicts are not my style.
Living satisfied with who I am, makes me feel like a
good person.
I don’t need drugs or alcohol to mess up my life.
I am able to control myself without the influences of others.
I can make my own decision on who I want to be and how I want to live.

Bright summer sunshine
Reflects off the yellow surface.
Acid rain
Slips down the coat as if it were a slide.
There’s a coat hook
In the corner of the foyer,
But he keeps the coat on.
He’s drenched like a dog left outside,
A Scottish Terrier with a sweater.
It’s stopped pouring,
A slight drizzle remains.
The gutters are full of leaves,
Water overflows.
Drip.
 Drip.
 Drip.
Shouldn’t there be a rainbow or something?
"There is one,"
The obstinate man in the foyer states.
"Your eyes are too puffy.
You can’t see past the clouds."
Drip.
"Take your coat off," I plead.
He sat down on the Welcome mat,
Outside.
He’ll catch cold in the rain, I worry.
His sun dried coat
No longer shimmers.
Shouldn’t there be a rainbow or…
I talk to myself.
He’s gone away, down the sidewalk.
The concrete, dry like pottery.
Drip.
 Drip.
 Drip. Drip. Drip.
His coat sits on the porch
Next to his rubbers
And Gilligan’s hat.
I’ve never seen them taken off.
Torrents of rain start falling.
What will he do without his coat?
Earth’s sun,
The ray of hope,
Light at the end of the tunnel
Disappears.
There isn’t a rainbow.
There should have been one.

White as a
Corpse
Her eyes do not move
Her hands reach out
Embracing the air
Her feet rest on a
pedestal
In my room
She matches my walls
Her wings are molded into her
Back
White as a
Corpse
She watches my
Every move

                                  Unheard…

Ouch

Something's pulling at the inside of my chest…

It’s almost as if--my soul wants out…to show itself

… escape this carnal cage—

and all it could do is expand in my center

… causing all this mortal hurt;

a pang in my chest, a beating at the fore of my brain…

I wonder how far my soul would spread

If it were unlocked…

             … unleashed…

               … unwrapped from all this flab and phlegm

                … let to shed this mortal shell…

I wonder what color emotion would be…

I wonder how loud ’would sound…

Ear piercing, I’m sure.                                               

A competition,
our friendship.....the race.
My shoes worn thin to the sole,
out of breath, out of words.
Drenched in sweat,
drowning fast.
I give up,
You win.
You broke the tie...our bond,
don't try to patch it.
The tear is far too thick,
it's worn me thin.
Buried in words,
covered in lies.
I thought you were worth more than that,
I thought i meant more to you.
I find myself worthless,
You've ripped my life to shreads.
My friends worth nothing,
my boyfriend meaningless.
My family an opposite of yours,
wrong, wrong not to be your way.
I cry...I sob because of what you made me feel.
My emotions burned to ashes,
my heart torn in two.
It's all because of you.
So you see,
I can't compete with you.
You always win.
I've ran a long race,
while your foot hasn't crossed the starting line.

I am in such distress
about everything
about everything
and my bleak eyes
are now weak
I am seduced
by the devil
to enter his realm.
Like the fire of a dragon,
he is hypnotizing.
Beautiful at first
but, deep down
he is truly
a dangerous thing
And, you can never touch
the flame
For it bleeds
invisibly
like poison
And i am a victim
I am poisoned
No more do my eyes
envisage of a garden
of birds
of divinity
But, of illusions
of night
of darkness
of myst
of black, icy waters
that flow into the mouth
of Hades
and are wrapped up
in midnight...

No more
do my eyes
live in a dream
so pure
but are in a phantasm
an illusion
where the sun is black
and the moon laughs
at my helplessness
Where I am trapped
and the waters bleed
of my soul
Dark.
Cunning.
Alone...
The devil has me
on puppet strings
and I have
broken bones
I want to get out
to live in a world
where the clouds
 are marshmellows
and the rain
 is of gumdrops
but i cant...

The devil gazes
at my pathetic face
I gaze back
to notice
he is you...
I scream
 and realize
 I am powerless...

Well, I love poetry, art, and music (i play the piano) I love going out with friends, playing Nintendo, playing on the computer, and English (in school)

The moment you are brought into this world, you give your vow to cherish
life to the fullest. Each day and the next as it comes, you will take on
every year, month, day, hour, minute, and second of your life. Life is a
gift, life is meant to be cherished and experienced in the most sufficient
way. Life. A brief milestone in which we all go through. Along the way we
meet friends, lovers, even enemies. Along the way we pass through phases
and moments in which we regret. Along the way we touch each other’s
hearts, with a passion and love so deep, it will live on forever, through
all eternal life. And along the way we dream. We dream of love, glory,
accomplishment, revenge, and at times, sorrow. Along the way we seek and
find a journey which fits us, which at the time, makes us happy. Happiness
is the key to living. Happiness finds us all, whether it’s at the right
time or not. Happiness is my gift to you. Happiness is your gift to my
life, and I love you. Cherish each moment as your last, cherish each friend as your only, cherish each love as your heart, cherish life as your meaning. And, along the way…

Ashley
7-7-00

I opened the door and there was my mother standing there smiling.  >It had been years since I last saw her. I quickly approached her but she backed away. I asked her what was wrong but she turned wanting me to follow her. So I told my dad I'd be back later. We went all over, to the mall, saw all my friends, and for once I felt like a real kid with a real mom. I asked her why she waited so long to come see me and she replied she had a delivery. I asked her what the delivery was and she said later as we went to get ice-cream. I didn't know this at the time but to every one else she looked like a real person. We did all of the things we used to do.

When the day was over I asked about the package. She handed it to me and as she walked away I saw a tear roll down her cheek. I went inside and opened the package, there was nothing inside and I realized the package was just a way of spending the day with me. i put the package beside my bed and wished I could relive that day forever.

Greetings to all Earthlings. My name is Scaeffa (pronounced "Sky-effer")

In order to educate you all, I have created a journal in order to show you what it is like to be an alien living on Earth. I have converted all of my planet's dates into Earth dates (a very lengthy and tedious task indeed!). However, as my planet's daytime length is different from yours, I cannot be totally accurate. I have also translated this into 50 other dialects from your planet. 

June 27, 2001

Today I start the journal. It has been an interesting day to say the least. Today I took three tests: Math, Astro Mech and Astro Nav. All three were equally challenging. Tomorrow I take Science and Basic Medical Training (BMT). Tomorrow looks to be what earth parents call a "big day" . 

June 28, 2001

This day I couldn't take the tests. My math grades are higher than what I like them to be. I now have been assigned to psychologists who will issue a series of IQ tests.

June 29, 2001

I am starting to suffer from the effects of tedium and mental exhaustion. (censored). I have been assigned to a different set of testers, who will start with me tomorrow.

July 5, 2001

I have not been able to write for the past five days because of the tests. They took up twenty of your earth hours for three days and I was extremely tired for the final two. Next week, I shall be assigned to a ship. Its destination: a small planet known as Earth.

July 7, 2001

I have finally completed all my remaining tests. (censored).

July 8, 2001

I have found out the name of my ship. It is called the "Esemann jri" (NOTE: jri is one of the numbers used by my race. It is about the equivalent of the Earth number "Five").

July 15, 2001

I have been consumed by preparation for the mission. I board today. 

August 16, 2001

I have found very little free time since the ship is always threatened in one way or another. Unfortunately, the First Interplanetary War has broken out between my race (the Kryans) and another race called the Furyt. We have been caught "smack in the middle" (as an earthling would say. I have since adopted this vocabulary usage).

August 18, 2001

The Furyt have crippled our ship, except for the hyperdrive. I can expect to get to Earth sooner than I thought.

August 23, 2001 (the computer dating system told me)

We have successfully reached Earth orbit. I will not be able to write any more.

November 3, 2001

I have had an unusual experience. When we landed, we were immediately spotted by this planet's space corps. And we were found by their police. I have since been taken, put into a Parentless Child Care unit and am now in custody of the Manella family. The mother, Jane, is nice, and her child, Lauren, can be rather exhausting (I believe Earthlings use the word "pest" to describe a child like her). The daughter goes to a French-speaking school, the "Lycée International de Los Angeles" (which I attend as well). Only recently, I have participated in an Earth custom known as "Halloween", which i shall not go into detail about.

February 13, 2002

I have had the most unusual experience even a Kryan can have. First of all, I discovered that I was what Earthlings call "Telekinetic". This is possibly due to Earth's Atmosphere. Then I discovered the ability to "haut appearance", as I call it. This means that I can be on the plane of existence that is inhabited only by ghosts Earthlings call "Poltergeists". It began when I was studying French with Lauren. Suddenly, I felt weak. Then I noticed that my body was dissipating into thin air. Having no control over what I was doing, I broke all the windows in the house. And  then I was able to travel outside and do some damage. I must have killed several people too. I ended up causing a blackout all over the world, before I was able to control it and bring myself down. It looks as though i'll have to come up with all the currency to pay for the damage myself. (censored).

POST SCRIPT: I now have a romantic interest. He's doing best in maths at my school.

From the sweet smelling, rain fresh air, I hesitantly stepped inside what was supposedly a haven for the privileged and talented. Not the elitism, but more the prospect of where my own talent tended to lie, lured me. The muddle of chairs and senescent stands sprawled into chaos from the stirring of a thousand rears and fingers had the welcome sense of a six years’ school home, but the underlying tensions that bombarded inhabitants needed a new Ralph Ellison to throw its petty segregation and hidden symbols of agitation into the air. The band hall has the atmosphere in which a hundred students are forced to breathe from their own individuality, choked into one mass of uniformity, doing this and that in one suffocating mob from their crammed little homogeneous chairs with their flashy little homogeneous instruments (“We are one, we are uniform—if you do it wrong, the band does it wrong”). They must be taught there and agitated each practice by the elevated presence of ! an odious saturated mouth and a conductor’s stick, where they sit in their newly ordered chairs glaring, gaping with disbelief and annoyance, apathetic to the greater cause and antagonistic, speaking out to the mirror form before them that merely flitters its fingers at questions too fruitless to its own reflection as they settle back in their angered perplexity to gape pointlessly at the jumbled black dots before their eyes. It is a room whose looming walls encompass students who tattle to cronies of little insignificant trifles that hypocritically mock the original source of information as it tears down yet another inner shriveled threadbare sense of pride, and where loyalties are driven by plastic identities that materialize in the soft covertness that everyone knows exists in their own plagued awareness, so that the jolly façade of the award-winning unity will not disclose the severed reality. It is a room where the young patiently watch and learn: observe seniors to see!

 attitude in action, listen to the harping and criticism to allow discontent diffuse through their flooded bodies as they are cultured into little monsters, and little by little take it upon their own growing minds to express their freshly enlightened sentiments of the untold terrors to which they have been exposed. And so in my sigh I wearily blinked away the glaring lights and stares of the room and made my way over to my worn, padded seat as I had the last morning and the last, and there remained to ponder, as observation and age had given me right and reason, and my reason wearily based.

"Oh, come on! Please? I really want to go, and I know you do, too. Your problem is that you just won't admit it!"

"But what if someone catches us and we get in trouble, Amanda? Don't even try to tell me that you want to get suspended again!"

"Now, Patty, you listen to me, and you listen to me well. I have wanted to go there every since we came to this school last year, and I obviously still want to go. I know I have gotten caught doing stuff and been suspended a lot of times, but this is different. There is no way on earth we could get caught this time. It's practically foolproof! Ok, here's the plan. When everyone else goes downstairs to the cafeteria for lunch, we will simply go then! It's that simple. Oh come on, what do you say?"

"Ok…. But if you get us caught…"

"Stop worrying! Patty, everything will be fine!"

That is how she convinced me to go on one of her "foolproof," so she called it, plans. You see, when we first came to Johnson Middle School last year, Amanda and I found this secret door in the hallway hidden by a poster.

When we first discovered it, I knew I was in for one of her crazy adventures..

The moment I got to school the following day, Amanda stood there awaiting me. "Oh, my dear friend Patty, isn't it such a beautiful morning 

"Dude, what has gotten into you? Are you 100 percent positive that you are the same Amanda from yesterday?"

"Absolutely, positively-o! Patty, you didn't forget about our little adventure today, did you?"

"No, no I didn't forget. In fact, I stayed awake almost all night thinking about it…. That was the longest night of my life! "

"Golly, Patty. Would you please chill for once in your life? Relax and have a little bit of fun, Miss Goody-Goody."

After that, we headed into the building to catch up with some other friends and head to first period. As the morning proceeded, my apprehensions rose about the decision I had made. Was it the right choice? I knew that there was a chance of us getting busted, but I didn't want Amanda to get mad at me; we had been friends for too long. To be perfectly honest, I did want to go like she had said the previous day. What would happen if we would get caught? What if we got trapped in the past living like pioneers? Or even Indians? Or cavemen? What if we got trapped in the future, but everything was different, and, and, and… Wait! Stop right there, I told myself. I cannot worry, or I will drive myself absolutely crazy!

The morning proceeded so insanely slowly. Finally, sixth period was over, and Amanda came up to me. "Oh, I am SO totally psyched! Are you ready, are you ready? Come on, let's go!!!"

"Hang on a sec, ok? Let's rethink this and look at all the possible outcomes. Are you totally sure this is what you want to do?" 

"Amanda, don't tell me you are going to chicken out now!"

"Well, no, but…"

"Good! Then let's go; we are wasting valuable time!"

First, we checked to make sure all of our classmates were gone. No one was to be seen. Then we made one last check to make sure all the teachers were gone. Not a person was in sight. We walked to the poster, or our secret door, actually. Amanda took the poster down, and there was the door. We walked up to it. She slowly reached out for the knob and put her hand on it.

I held my breath. I was as scared as a mouse that was about to be eaten by a snake. She started to turn it but ever so slowly. I thought the world would end before she finally got it open. As she started to push it open, I let out a scream.

"Patty! What are you thinking? Do you want us to get caught because you sure act like it?"

"No, but I'm trembling like crazy back here. Just hurry up and do it!"

We turned back to the door. She continued to push it open it until it was standing all the way open. It was pitch black inside, but we were able to see some outlines of some objects.

"Patty, help be find a light switch!"

"But why?" I whined.

"Let me think about that one…. Duh! Come on now."

We fumbled around for a light switch when finally Amanda found one. She flipped it on. What we saw was surprising, kind of disappointing, but most of all, relieving.

"Oh my gosh," Amanda said. " We came all this way and went through all of that just to find THIS!?" She was extremely disgusted-sounding.

I was just as surprised as her. After all of that, we found a broom closet. That's right, a broom closet! It was just a small little room with cleaning supplies, brooms, dustpans, mops, buckets, and rags. Then we walked out, closed the door, and hung the poster back up just as the bell rang.

"Hey, Patty! Another spectacular idea just came to me! You know that door in the gym behind the bleachers? Well, I was thinking…"

"Amanda, don't even waste your breath! I will never ever go on another of your stupid adventures as long as I live! Get it through your head. NEVER!"

Even as I sit here, wearing a plain black dress and moving

restlessly in my cold, metal fold-out, I can’t begin to understand that he

is actually gone. I can still hear his deep, rumbling laughter and the way

he’d smile, his chocolate eyes assuming that far off, absent look and say,

"Now that is Naw’lins jazz," every time we’d listen to Satchmo playing the

"Basin Street Blues". I begin to tear the paper obituary into little pieces,

watching them fall to the floor. It reminds me of spreading ashes. I look up

and remember where I am.

> Joseph Mosely was eighty-two when I met him just this spring. He died two

and half months later of complications from the emphysema that had plagued

him for a decade and landed him in a nursing home. That’s where I first saw

him, his curly gray fuzz setting off a unique contrast to the rich tones of

brown in his skin, arguing amiably with a nurse in the back of the room

about taking his medication while listening to my high school’s jazz band

playing a rather simplified rendition of "In the Mood" for the nursing home

patrons. He had pulled me aside after we had finished out last song and our

director was giving some closing remarks and asked me where I had learned to

"play that trumpet like you do."

> I had laughed politely and remember saying something silly along the lines

of "Miles Davis and my band director." He laughed then -the most satisfying,

deep laugh that I have ever heard in my life- and proceeded to take my arm

through his and lead me back into the depths of the dimly lit and sterile

smelling nursing home.

> "Wanna show you somethin’," he had said, wheezing slightly and motioning

for me to follow him into the only room at the end of the hallway.

> I remember glancing back down the hall once, just once, to see if anyone

knew where I was going, and then going in anyway. Upon entering his room,

all my back-minded inhibitions and irrational fears were instantly shattered

and replaced with the immediate sense of admiration at his isolated

sanctuary. It was his home.

> The walls were plastered with mostly black and white posters and

photographs of musicians from the likes of Dizzie Gillspie to John Coltrane.

An old-fashioned record player stood supported by a bookshelf like an statue

on a pedestal.

> He ambled stiffly over to another bookshelf, this one stuffed full of

records, and pulled out a worn-looking album by Louis Armstrong.

> "I heard you playin’ up there. That gonna be you someday," he had laughed,

pointed a pudgy black finger at the picture on the cover.

> "Oh, I’m no Satchmo," I’d answered modestly, knowing that this was to be

my last year in the band anyway.

> "Shoah you are!" he’d replied, his smiling brown eyes lost in a sea of

wrinkles. "You keep the music alive! You Satchmo’s little defender. His

warrior," he spoke, his raspy voice betraying a deep Louisiana accent.

> Just then, Lauren had popped her head in the door and told me that the bus

was about to leave and that our band director Mrs. Hatcher was getting

impatient. I looked dejectedly to Joe, treasuring my new acquaintance and

hating good-byes.

> "Mr. Mosely," I had said suddenly, turning back from the door, "can I come

back some time and talk?"

> The color rushed to my cheeks. Why would anyone want to talk with a dumb

kid? But my embarrassment was fleeting when he replied with a grin.

> "Shoah thing. Come real soon, an’ we can talk music," he said, his round

brown cheeks ever in a smile. "An’ call me Joe. Ain’t gonna have none of

this ‘Mister Mosely’ business."

> I had smiled widely and waved as I continued down the hall with Lauren. I

learned later that Joe’s room was so far away from the other’s because the

other people would complain about his loud swing music, blaring out of the

old record player at all hours. I laughed when I heard this, because it was

just like him to prefer living alone with his music than surrounded without

it.

> During the next several weeks, I visited Joe every Wednesday and Friday,

and we’d listen to music and talk about anything and nothing at all,

laughing like two old friends over coffee. People just listening would never

guess that the conversations were between an old black man and a white high

school girl whose only connection was the music that they loved.

> I still savor thinking how I sat there just listening to him ramble on

about how he’d give anything to hear Baby Dodds go up against Gene Krupa on

the drums or listen to Ella Fitzgerald singing on a rainy Sunday afternoon.

He told me just about everything he knew about swing, and I received it all

with open ears and heart.

> When it got too hot to sit inside without air-conditioning, we’d sit

outside on the patio in front of the home and sip watered down lemonade and

talk shop as the cool breeze parted the stifling heat and cooled the sweat

on our foreheads in the shining summer sun.

>Once, when I had burst into tears about some trivial situation at home, he

had leaned back like he was thinking really hard, and then simply said, "Ya

know, the Duke once said that a problem is a chance for you to do your

best."

>It’s probably silly, but I still think of that every time I’m faced with a

challenge. It was simple advice from a great man delivered by an even

mightier friend.

> I remember once, when we had known each other longer, he told me that he

had played the trumpet "back in the day." I begged him to play something for

me, but he shook his head and quietly said that after his baby boy died some

forty years ago, he "ain’t never felt like playin’ much anymore." Later,

when the head nurse called me and informed me of his death, I knew exactly

what he had meant.

> The last time I saw him, Joe was lying down in his bed looking

surprisingly old. The woman at the nurses station had told me not to bother,

that he wasn’t talking much anymore, but she didn’t understand. We didn’t

have to talk. It was enough just to listen.

> I went to his bed and sat on the edge, pulling open the shades a bit so I

could see more clearly.

> "That my little warrior?" he had asked softly, wheezing for breath as he

parted his dry lips for a weak smile.

> "Hey, Joe," I replied warmly, patting his hand and wondering just how much

time he had left.

> I didn’t have to wonder long - Joseph Mosely died the next week. It was a

rainy Sunday.

> It seems all too surreal now, thinking of all that had transpired between

us in such a short time, and knowing that it is over, but that it will never

leave me.

> I’m standing at the top of a grassy hill, looking down on a burial tent,

flapping diligently in the fresh-smelling breeze with a small crowd huddled

under its shade. The sun is shining, though partially hidden behind the

mountainous stacks of white cumulus. There are fresh flowers in my hand, and

I can’t help but smile, knowing exactly what Satchmo would say about this

moment, and wondering if just maybe he and Joe are shooting the breeze up in

Heaven, listening to music, and laughing about anything and nothing at all.

Samson P. Arrow felt himself falling off a cliff.

>The air rushing towards him made it difficult to breathe, along with the

fact that he’d been shot in the stomach.

>He thought thoughts.

>Will I die? Won’t I? Will I die? Won’t I? Did I leave the gas on? He didn’t

know that while he was thinking these thoughts, he was already dead. He had

believed through his life that being dead meant unconsciousness. This was

true, but he also thought that being dead made thinking impossible. This is

true in most cases, so I bet that anyone reading his deceased mind would

wonder how he could wonder if the gas was still on. Well, it’s called:

Excess Thoughts. This means that through life, his brain hadn’t been working

enough, so after he died, his brain couldn’t resist a bit of extra thinking.

> This is why chickens run around when their heads are cut off. And why

philosophers don’t.

> As S.P Arrow hit the water, he thought that it was slightly amusing that

his name could read: Sparrow. Ha ha.

> The cold water hit him. He didn’t try to resist. He remembered that old

Star Trek film with the Cyborgs saying: Resistance is futile. He figured

that also counted when in an ocean. Life’s a bowl of cherries. But just the

pits. Ha bloody ha.

>Life has nothing to do with it, some deep thought said timidly. He realized

at this point that he might be dead. But then why was he still thinking?

That timid voice in the far corners of his brain explained the situation.

Timidly.

> * * * * * * * *

>The sun shone on the golden sand. A huge cliff towered over the beach.

Wait, that doesn’t make sense. The sand was covered by a huge shadow from

the towering cliff. There we go. A body lay on the golden, sunny sand. In a

shadow…

>

>"Is this a good place to eat, you reckon?" Asked a young man.

>"Yep. And no, I’m not Reckon." Said another young man. The other one smiled

slightly at the poor excuse for humor and sat down.

>"Have a bagel?" Asked Ron, the first young man.

>"No, sorry, I’m all out," said Leonard triumphantly.

>"Ha."

>"Yes please."

>"What?"

>"Um."

>"Is that all you can say?"

>"Yep."

>"But you just said…"

>"Huh huh."

>"But you just said…"

>"Nope."

>"No, I mean you juust said…"

>"Sorry, no I didn’t" The regular witty conversation had started again.

>"Are you trying to be funny?"

>"Yes."

>"Oh."

>"Anyway, I’d like a bagel please."

>"I’m not so sure you deserve them."

>"O.K, I just want one."

>"Stop making every sentence witty, it’s not working."

>"If it’s not working, then how do you know it’s witty?"

>"Idiot."

>"Ditto."

>"Fool, let’s eat."

>"……………"

>"Why the hesitation?"

>"You might wanna get rid of me."

>"Don’t worry, I read in a book that some things poisonous to rats, aren’t

poisonous to humans."

>"Then I’ll eat the things you die from."

>"For God’s sake, can’t you make a conversation normal"

>"Only on insane terms."

>"What?"

>"I shouldn’t waste my humor on an idiot."

>"I told you to stop speaking to yourself."

>"Excuse me, can you tell me if I’m dead?" Leonard looked around. A man

soaking wet was standing right by the shore.

>"TV’ll do that to you, old chap," The man looked puzzled.

>"Maybe if you tell me your name then I can look in the obituary."

>"Would you really do that for me?" The man had dark hair, and wore a blue

suit. Leonard hated blue suits. The dead man smiled slightly.

>"Yeah, what is it?" asked Leonard.

>"The part of the newspaper where they print the names of people who died."

>"No, I mean…" Leonard laughed. A crazy man with a sense of humor. Imagine

that.

>"My name’s Samson Part Arrow." Leonard thought for a moment.

>"You know, if you take the first letter of Samson and Part, and add it on

to Arrow, you get Sparrow."

>"A lark" was the dry reply.

>Leonard had no intention of looking in the newspaper for the man’s name.

Someone would have had to actually pay for it to be put in there. The act of

spending money terrified Leonard almost as much as having to go out and earn

it.

>"You have no intention of looking in the newspaper for my name do you." The

tone of his voice signaled it to be rhetorical.

>"Er….."

>"I didn’t really expect you to. Just making conversation. It’s tires me to

just sit here. Bye the way, you friend’s passed out."

>"Yeah, he seemed to be mumbling something for a sec."

>"Aren’t you gonna help him?"

>"No."

>"Oh. So, what’s happening in Japan? I heard there was a war there."

>"Not for twenty two years."

>"That’s probably why my stomach has an empty feeling then." Leonard had the

uneasy feeling that he was having a conversation with a man who equaled his

IQ. And this man seemed a bit…well, a bit off his rocker. Ron began to move.

Leonard kicked him lightly.

>"Ow!"

>"Shut it."

>"OW!"

>"Get up, Ron. This is no time to be passing out. You’ve been doing it a lot

lately."

>"Yeah, but those times I’ve been drunk."

>"Maybe it’s this fresh air, you should go shove your head under the hood of

a truck—"

>"Shut up, my head hurts."

>"—that’s still running." The man who was unsure if he was dead cleared the

place where a throat would have been.

>"You see, I was falling off a cliff. And as soon as I hit the water, a

voice told me that I’m dead." Ron choked and fainted again. Leonard watched

him amusingly.

>"He thinks you’re dead."

>"Ha ha."

>"That’s not a great laugh. You should work on it."

>"It’s called a mirthless laugh. A dry laugh. A laugh that means I don’t

think it’s bloody funny." Leonard was slightly worried now. He’d heard of

people who had "it’s" or "theys." People who thought that there were

conspiracies all around them. Trying to get them for experience. Or was it

experiments?

>"Well. Look. Do you have any family?"

>"Nope."

>"You don’t think your a cat?"

>"………"

>"Well?" Sparrow cleared his nonexistent throat again.

>"I believe that I want to be reincarnated as a…er…feline species." Leonard

gulped silently. A trait only he can manage.

>"May I ask…um…which gender you want to be?"

>"Whichever one God wills. But I’d like a change you know?"

>"Amen to that sister…er…brother." Leonard laughed loudly silently. Another

one of those special things.

>"You friend if awakening."

>"Mm."

> "You know what the voice said?"

>"Meow?"

>"Ha."

>"Is that another mirthless one?"

>"Yep."

>"Well, what did it say."

>"What, the cat?"

>"No, the voice."

>"It told me that I’m only thinking thoughts right now because during my

life…" The not-so supernatural apparition explained the situation. Finally,

after he had finished, the not so natural man spoke. This means Leonard for

the record.

>"Do you believe this ca…er…voice?"

>"I don’t know."

>"I wouldn’t."

>"Me either."

>"But you just said…" Ron spoke:

>"Who wrote our script in life?" He asked deliriously.

>"Some idiot hoping to get a bestseller, why?" Asked Leonard.

>"It suddenly occurred to me that every sentence we’ve spoken for the last

half an hour have been short and funny."

>"Oh, the creator has a sense of humor, obviously." After a pause he added,

"And shut up, we’re having a short-sentence conversation ourselves."

>"I noticed."

>"I know. That’s where your "sudden" idea came from."

>"No, it came from a voice in my head."

>"Oh, you too?"

>"I Guess so…what?"

>"Excuse me, we were talking about the voices I believe?" The ghost

struggled to get a word in…which wasn’t very difficult. Ron fainted again,

much to Leonard’s relief.

>"Oh, forget about voices for a second. Wanna eat some food?"

>"Don’t think so. I tried the other day and it just passed through me."

>"Maybe you shouldn’t eat that kind of food anymore."

>"I mean, it literally just passed through me."

>"Would they happen to have been plums?"

>"No, I mean, I swallowed one and it just fell through me."

>"Apricots?"

>"You don’t get it do you?"

>"I get that either your crazy or insane."

>"Or dead."

>"Brain dead." Leonard agreed.

>"You know what your friend said was right. Whoever wrote out the script of

our life seems to have let us just standing here for the worse part of half

an hour."

>"If you feel tired then your not dead."

>"No, bored."

>"Then you’re thinking, you have emotions."

>"No."

>"Fine then. Wanna try to eat?"

>"No."

>"Well. Look. If you have to use up your excess thoughts, shouldn’t you try

to think?"

>"Your right, I’m not getting very far with you."

>"Creators fault." Leonard said defensively.

>"Creators," Sparrow agreed.

>"But…I have an idea."

>"Woopdidoo."

>"Hm?"

>"Creator."

>"Sure. Anyway, couldn’t we give you a test?"

>"To see if I’m crazy or insane?

>"NO."

>"Don’t speak in capitals. It hurts my ears."

>"HA! but if it hurts your ears then you have feelings!"

>"Yeah, I was unemotional most of my life."

>"Darn." It was at this precise moment of "darn" that Leonard realized that

he could see through Sparrow. It was slightly shocking. Seeing the ocean

through air isn’t fun if it’s not suppose to happen.

>"You’re dead by the way." Sparrow took a float back.

>"You could have broken it to me easily."

>"Like how?"

>"Well, you could first said something like: You’re not breathing, and then

gradually worked your way up to: You have passed on to the afterlife."

>"You haven’t."

>"Oh."

>"So, well…how about a test. You know, we could put together a test and you

could use your thinking on it."

>"But what if I don’t pass?"

>"Onto the afterlife?"

>"Um."

>"The test?"

>"Right."

>"Then, you take it again."

>"I hate failing."

>"Study."

>"If I study, I may use all my thinking before I take the test."

>"Oh, dear. Now we have a problem here don’t we."

>"Yes, and don’t call me dear."

>"…"

>"Don’t give me a blank look." Said Sparrow.

>"Sorry, just thinking that your humor was the same as mine."

>"Oh, no choice in the matter. Creator."

>"Creator." Leonard agreed. Ron stirred again. Leonard had a fleeting

thought about knocking him out, but decided against it.

>"Hey Ron, this dead guy’s see through. His heads on the sand."

>Ron moaned silently(we each have our own tricks we can do)and fainted

again.

>"Now. O.K. Let’s see. How many peas are in a "Barrel of Grapes?"

>"How should I know?"

>"Use your brai…nevermind, sorry. It’s one."

>"But…but…how could I know."

>"If you knew how to spell, you’d see that in the phrase: Barrel Of Grapes,

there is only one P."

>"Ha bloody ha."

>"I wish you’d stop that…it’s scary."

>"Try me again."

>"O.K." There was a long pause.

>"No, sorry, you’re still dead."

>"What?!"

>"Oh, sorry. You shuffled off your mortal coil…deceased…etceteras."

>"Shuffled Off my Mortal Coil…I like that. Sounds quaint."

>"Yeah, almost makes you want to."

>"Sound quaint?"

>"Oh, for goodness sake. I’m sure if anyone’s reading this script, they’d

have shuffled their own coils with boredom!"

>"Huh? Oh, well, get on with the test."

>"What was the last word of a dying officer in the civil war."

>"You’ll have to be more specific. Which civil war."

>"You know."

>"No. Me Samson Part Arrow."

>"Anyway: Any civil war will do."

>"O.K, how about: ‘Agh’"

>"Right on the spot. One point for the Apparition Sparrow. A.P for short."

>"Next?"

>"What do you get if you cross a chicken and a dead, decomposed dog?"

>"I don’t."

>"Er…"

>"Sorry, next?"

>"O.K. What do you get if you cross a pig and a chicken."

>"Ham and Eggs."

>"No, sorry. It’s: A farm."

>"Ha."

>"Now: What do you do when They come for you?"

>"Bad boys, bad boys."

>"Yeah! Your pretty good at this. How’s your thought?"

>"It’s getting weaker, but I think that speaking to you for an extended

length could numb anyone’s brain."

>"Mm."

>"Next?"

>"O.K: How many days does it take a man to walk a fortnight?"

>"Two weeks?"

>"Yeah, wow, I would never have thought of that. If I didn’t know the

question."

>"I can tell."

>"O.K, Now: what’s five times ten?"

>"Hey! My thoughts are getting weaker!"

>"Don’t try to evade the question."

>"But…I can’t think straight!"

>"You couldn’t to begin with. Now hurry up."

>"Um…………………………………."

>"Spit it out."

>"49 and a half?"

>"Nope I’m sorry, it’s…"

>"I’m leaving! Goodbye!" The ghost faded away. Leonard was about to try to

wake up Ron, when Sparrow suddenly reappeared. Leonard jumped.

>"I didn’t leave the gas on." Sparrow said.

>"Why are you back? I thought you were done thinking!" Sparrow looked at

Leonard and then started fading again.

>"Yeah," his voice called back, "that was an afterthought."

draw in a quick breath and let it flow out slowly - it's a tradition

when I am worried. My nerves are holding a trampoline party inside my

stomach, and apparently my heart is joining in on the fun, for it jumps to

my throat and falls back down to my knees. I swallow deep gulps of air and

stare blankly at the ceiling. The small glow in the dark stars I've had

since I was four are glaring back down at me and asking me why I'm so

stupidly nervous. They seem to shimmer tonight, as if they were more than

plastic, and they remind me of the chocolate frosting my mom used to slather

onto her gooey cakes and brownies. Not that the stars were a deep brown and

not that I could even eat chocolate.

>It is three o' clock in the morning and I am having difficulty sleeping. I

can hear the dryer's humming sound, and every once in a while it lets out a

repeating whistle that keeps going on inside of my head. While this is

occuring, the coins I had left in my jeans pocket are being thrown around

the washing machine, clinking against the sides and reminding me of my

sister's collection of windchimes.

>I want so much to get up, walk around, practice my dance routine, but there

is a cat sleeping by my side and another at my feet, and I don't want to

disturb them.

>I instead keep lying awake, wasting oxygen, wasting my mind away with my

worried thoughts and memories. I am scared because tomorrow I have to speak.

>I have to talk to the three people I trust most in the world, not a large

audience, but the entire experience will be far more painful than silly

speeches that seem so long ago. I could change my mind at any minute now,

and I know it. I never guarenteed that I would open my mouth, I never told

them I would. I could go on wasting these days just like all of the other

weeks, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling . . . She always said I could

come to her for help. I clasp my hands and twist my pinky nervously, closing

my eyes, but my headache is to strong for my body to drift off. Tomorrow I

have to speak.

>When I stare at the clock again, it's two hours later, and I have still not

fallen into dreamland. I would be happy to just have a nightmare, even the

worst had to be better than what I had to do just twelve hours from now.

Maybe she won't be home, I think to myself, more like wishing and hoping.

What's another week or two? This is the fourth night of insomnia, I feel as

if I had spent an entire day gulping down mugs of coffee and Mountain Dew

along with an assortment of caffeine pills. They weren't for caffeine, a

voice inside me bellows, and I smother it with a pillow. I sigh and turn

around onto my stomach, and since my eyes have hours ago adjusted to the

dark, I can study the plain white pillowcase instead of my boring ceiling.

At least now the stars can't tease me.

>

> I fall into a half-conscious state, but it is too far from sleeping to

call it that. It isn't even relaxation. It is worrying, fretting about the

day ahead. I know I could just forget about it. I also know that I can't.

The world is against me now, ganging up and laughing at me, laughing at the

stars in the ceiling, laughing at my stacks of magazines, laughing at my

worries and fears and my destination. Laughing at everything I had ever

believed in or ran to when I was scared.

>When I open my eyes again, bright lemonade-colored sunshine is peeking it's

way through my window, even with the curtains loose across the clear pane.

Maybe it's just paranoia, but I can feel it laughing with the world. I am

sick of worrying, I am sick of hiding and running. But I can not help but

fear the worst . . . what will these people think of me, when I tell them?

If I tell them, I correct myself. I never made a promise. If I had made a

promise, I would be in trouble. But I never promised. I don't make vows I

can't keep. I still feel pressured, though, because I know that I have to

tell. Nobody is forcing me to, only my brain and heart, but they are too

strong and are pushing down on me like bricks. I know I have to talk. What

if I don't? I'll grow up to be an angry, unsuccessful person. Then again, I

can just as easily become a millionaire without telling a nagging secret,

what does it have to do with anyway? I sigh and let my Librian side show

through. I have to consi!

>der my options. If I do tell, those poor three people will have a weight on

their shoulders, or maybe dismiss me with a wave of a hand, or yell at me or

. . .

>I have to stop thinking. This world isn't going to kill me. Maybe the

people in it, but not the world itself. The world isn't created for violence

and pain, it is created for hardships. I swallow the non-existant words in

my throat and stand up on the edge of the bed. I flick on the lights and

shiver in the coldness that has overpassed my room. I throw on yesterday's

jeans and tomorrow's shirt and comb my hair into a loose ponytail that hangs

limply down the back of my neck, but today I don't care. For once my

appearance isn't important to me. I stare at myself for a few minutes in the

full length mirror and instantly notice the large circles hanging under my

eyes . . . I know who I am. I lick my dry lips, and for luck, press on my

clear chapstick. I consider putting on mascara, but I deny it, for I know

it'll all too soon be running down my cheeks. No use making myself more

embarrassed that I know that I will be. I practice talking out loud, just

few simple words, to get the !

>raspiness out of my throat. I stare at the clock. It's only 7:42, but I

pick up the phone anyway. She has always been an early riser since the day I

met her eight years ago at my brother's school. My shaky, trembling finger

punches out the deeply memorized numbers, and she answers on the second

ring, talking in her normal voice, though she seems surprised to hear from

me. I only ask her if I can come over to her house, and she agrees, seeming

to understand that I have something to say.

>I slip on my denim coat and scribble a note on the yellow construction

paper for my sister. And as I slip out the door, quiet as a mouse, every

vibe in my body tells me that I'm doing the right thing.

>

>I take the largest breath of my life and let out a sad smile.

Kathy Cringed. They had just received their first assignment of the

new grading

>period, at Physically Active Alternative School. Kathy had to write a

biography-essay of

>Samantha Stockhold, the rich sixteen year old Olympic Gold Medalist in

Dressage.

> Kathy, the meek seventeen year old State Hunter/Jumper champion, walked

over

>to Samantha(A.K.A. Sam)

> "Hi Kathy, I’m glad your over here. I have to interview you for the

biography-

>essay" Sam smiled a beautiful, genuine smile.

> "You got me? Because I got you too?" Kathy tried hard to smile, but

because of

>all the memories of jealousy, couldn’t.

> "Yeah isn’t that neat. The two horse riders got each other. I’ve been

meaning to

>talk to you but I’m really shy on the inside. I just couldn’t figure out

what to say."

> "You mean the number one equestrian in Dressage in the world is to shy to

come

>and to a state hunter."

> "Guilty." Sam looked really tense and nervous, "Okay, we better get

started.

>When’s your birthday, Kathy?" Sam seemed to have calmed down her

nervousness.

> "October 21, 1982, Yours?"

> "May 7, 1984. What should I put that you do, besides horseback riding."

> "Play the piano, study sign language, I guess."

> "You study sign language? How good are you?"

> "Yes. Pretty good, I’m in my tenth year of studying."

> "Have you ever considered working as a translator or a or a riding

instructor for deaf riders."

> "Only as my dream job."

> "If you had a chance at it, would you take it."

> "In an instant."

> "Okay, you have a job then."

> "What!?"

> "Kendal, where I ride and board Tacey, is looking for an instructor that

knows and

>is willing to use sign-language."

> "You mean Kendal Stables, the most famous stable in the nation would want

me to

>work there."

> "Yes we’ve been searching for someone for three months. I know

sign-language

>because my sister is deaf, but I can’t teach on a daily basis. The Worlds

are coming up

>again. I have to prepare."

> "When are they?"

> "June seventeenth, I only have eleven weeks to prepare. I may have to quit

school

>early." The bell rang so they headed off to their next class.

> At lunch Sam for once didn’t sit alone. Kathy came over.

> "Is this seat taken?"

> "Nope, go ahead and sit down."

> "I want to take the job. But I need to ask a few questions before I say I’

ll take it."

> "Ask away. I’ll answer to the best of my ability."

> "Are the classes private? How much does it pay? And what are the hours?"

> "The classes are private, it pays twenty dollars an hour, I think the

classes are four

>to five every afternoon from Monday through Thursday." But one of the days

may be

>from four to six."

> "I’ll take the job."

> At one o’clock when school let out Kathy ran up to Sam.

> "Wait. Are you going to Kendal’s now?"

> "Yeah, need a ride?"

> "If you don’t mind. My Viper’s in the shop."

> "Okay, my Ferrari’s over there." Sam pointed to a bright red convertible.

> They rode the two miles to Kendal’s in silence.

> "Jessica, I’m glad your here. I need to run Annie to the hospital. She

broke her

>leg…we think. Whose that? You know the rules. No Visitors." Kendal pointed

to Kathy.

> "This is Kathy Mayers she wants the job."

>"Bottom drawer of my desk. Sam I’m trusting your judgment. Kathy fill them

>out. Sam call the five girls. I’ll be back in an hour, Kera and Tammy are

in five."

> "What did she say, I could not understand her." Kathy looked confused.

> "There are a stack full of forms you need to fill out and sign. There in

the bottom

>drawer of Kendal’s desk. I need to call the five deaf girls parents. Kera

and Tammy,

>advanced students are working on there Pas Du Duex in arena five. You start

your new

>job today."

> "Good thing you understand."

> Samantha laughed "Welcome to the advanced stable world. That only happens

>about once a week. Normally it is just a sprain but sometimes it’s worse."

> By the time Kendal and Annie were back the forms were filled out and the

girls

>called.

> "Girls will you help me. Were getting a new thourobred gelding named Toby.

>He’ll be here any minute. Kathy will you please get stall twenty-six ready

for him.

>Samantha will you help unload."

> "Oh my gosh, Toby, a Roan Thourobred Gelding, was my first horse. I sold

him t

>to Happy Trails Stable when I got Tacey." Sam whispered to Kathy. Then

spoke loud and

>clear. "Kendal, where is Toby coming from?"

> "Happy Trails Stables. Said a girl about the age of ten got him when he

was a colt.

>Sold it to them when she got a better horse at age thirteen and she left.

Never seen again.

> "Kendal, I hate to ask this but can I buy that horse. I was the one that

sold him

>when I got Tacey."

> "Does Toby mean that much to you?"

> "Yes, I was there when he was born. I halter broke him and saddle broke

him. But

>he’s a jumper. But I want Toby. I think Toby and Kathy would make a great

team. Instead

>of twenty-six can we put him in two, next to Tacey."

> "You mean your buying me a horse?"

> "He’ll be mine on the paper work. But yours to ride. But I get visitation

rights."

>Samantha laughed and her genuine smile broke through.

>

> Nine weeks later on the last day of school

>

> Kathy walked to the front of the class room, nervously clutching her

essay.

> "Meet Samantha Amber Stockhold. Most people know her for her incredibility

on

>a horse. But to those who know her well, her genuine smile is the greatest

thing.

> Born May seventh, nineteen eighty-four. She was born to Jason and

Elizabeth. At

>the age of two her brother Kyle was born. Then six years later, Marie, her

youngest, sister

>was born profoundly deaf. I got a unique experience to teach Marie learn to

ride a horse.

> When Marie was born, Jason and Elizabeth sent Samantha off to a boarding

school

>for girls who loved horses. They also bought Toby, a gelding, after

Samantha’s plea’s of

>love for him.

> Sam was the youngest, yet most advanced rider as well as horsewoman at the

>school. If there was a horse problem. Sam was there helping out in what

ever way she

>could. She would give orders and could mend minor injuries like no other at

that school.

> Finally at age ten her parents let her come home. She immediately enrolled

in

>Happy Trails Horse Boarding and Equestrian Lessons. During that time

Samantha taught

>Toby to be ridden hunter/jumper as well as dressage. So at twelve, the

youngest person

>ever, received the national champion in the senior division of dressage,

and state champion

>in hunter.

> She decided at age thirteen to pursue dressage. She sold Toby to Happy

Trails and

>went to Kendal Riding Stable. She fit right in. Training is the main

purpose of Kendal

>Stables. So under the watchful eye of Kendal, the owner, she won Olympian

Gold.

> Only nine weeks ago she found Toby again. I personally ride Toby under the

>watchful eyes of Kendal and Samantha.

> Other than horseback riding, Sam is into: writing, reading, playing the

piano, and

>being a wild, free, and loose teenager.

> So under the Olympian Gold Medalist, 4.0 model student, there is a

wonderful

>friend. A loving caring one too.

> So I want to encourage you to look past her medals and ribbons and meet

the real

>Samantha Amber Stockhold. The one I got to meet because of this assignment.

I’m sorry

>to say this, but Samantha sat alone at a lunch table for the whole year,

because no one was

>willing to look pass her medals to her heart. Samantha was always known as

a rich snob.

>She’s not. She’s really a genuine friend with a genuine smile. So please

look past her

>medals and look at her smile and her heart. She’s my best friend. Thank

you."

>

> Two Weeks Later: At the World Championship

>

> "Samantha Stockhold on Tacey," the P.A. blared as Sam trotted out of the

gate

>and into the arena. She had decided to do her routine to her biography.

"Meet Samantha

>Stockhold…" Kathy’s voice comforted her as she did the tricky moves.

And with that, the bomb squad member stood, turned, and with a

twinkle in his eye and a smile on his face, removed his jump suit revealing

that he was not the bomb squad member as earlier assumed but, in fact, he

was the terrorist who had returned to “better” the bomb he had earlier set.

> The three-hour stand off had led to this, and as the crowd realized what

was unfolding before their terror filled eyes, those eyes that had been

before so filled with hope, so filled with their God given right to be free

and happy, those eyes that soon would be blasted into a vague memory on an

old mans mind. Shots bolted from the cops’ fingertips as they applied

pressure to the small piece of metal clenched in their hands. As the shots

rang out like church bells on the holiest of days, the people standing,

staring waiting for a sign that their city would be saved, let out many

shrieks of terror.

> In the surrounding streets stood dozens of police cars each shielding

two to three cops. In the terrorists last living moments on this planet, in

this existence, he revealed a remote from an inside coat pocket and with one

last push of effort the building fell. The streets cracked straight down the

middle as if Satan himself were opening a gateway between the worlds,

reaching up to grab a soul to torture for all eternity. The ground shook for

what felt like hours.

>The city was in chaos, and the country filled with commotion. The media

storming like rolling thunder coming in over the horizon, made attacks on

the cities’ police force that could leave a man shaking in his boots. A

whole nation in despair, that’s truly the greatest terrorist act of all time

preformed by the greatest terrorist there ever was and ever will be.

> That’s my pops and I love him dearly. But all great people meet their

demise eventually, and like I said before, he isn’t with us any more. But

here we go, this ones for you dad. And with the push of a button the

building exploded. Once again the sounds of hellfire and mayhem broke the

silence of the city and as the people looked for a reason or a way the

backside of my car disappeared around the side of a still standing building

and away I went, no evidence, no motive.

A Simple Minute

>

>“ The journey in between what you once were and who you are becoming is

where the dance of life really takes place.” ~! Barbara De Angelis

> I was a spoiled little six year old girl with long chocolate brown hair

and from my pink Barbie shoes to my pink hair bow I was as girly as

possible. As I slouched down making impressions of my chubby legs on my

father’s leather car seats I complained about going to kindergarten. After

all, why should “ Daddy’s Little Princess” be made to do something she didn’

t want to do? Princesses were NOT bossed around and in my mind I shouldn’t

of been either. Reluctantly I stepped out of the car and said four words

that I will remember and treasure for the rest of my life; “ I love you

Daddy.”.It was with these powerful words that I walked to my classroom not

knowing that I would never see my father again. For six years of my life all

my father did was tend to my every need, but it is only looking back that I

recognize just how admirable a man he really was. My life up until that

point was almost “dream-like”; it was what every child envied and I was too

ignorant to even notice what !

>I had and appreciate it …but this whole scenario was about to change and

affect my outlook on life in a whole new perspective.

> Being the competitive child that I was, it was normal routine to be at

my best-friend Alexis’ house enumerating our troll-dolls to see who had the

most… November 15 1991 was the day I witnessed that trolls were not the

“center of the universe”. “ You only have 6 pink- haired trolls? Oh well

,too bad, so sad, I have

> 8!” my belligerent voice would say in order to prove a point”, somehow

inferring to Alexis that I was “better than her”. Generally I would stay for

dinner with Alexis and her family, but tonight was different, for some

unknown reason I had to go home. There was an immense, jet black Labrador

retriever that dwelled in the house two doors down from me and it scared me

to death, so I had Alexis’ father give me a piggyback ride down the street.

Haphazardly that night the dog did not appear but something else caught my

eye, there were about 7 cars parked outside my next door neighbors household

and through the colossal window placed in the front of their house I could

see my mother and sister. This puzzled me because it was unusual for our

neighbors to be up past 8, they were very old fashioned and valued their

sleep. Alexis’ father did not convey me over to my house, but instead

brought me straight up to the Andrews’ (my next door neighbors) front door.

As he rang the doorbell !

>I became even more perplexed. My curiosity was about to explode when all of

a sudden Mrs. Andrews answered the door. She was not the usual “ray of

sunshine” whose smiling face would bring happiness to anyone but more like a

depressed puppy who longed for his mother. She took my trembling hand and

led me into the family room where I then saw my mother and my sister Alana.

The expressions on their faces were more than I could bear so I roared out

What is the matter?” and then in a quiet voice my Mother said

Lauren,earlier today your Daddy was shot and killed. I know you are very

sad, but always remember he loved you more than you’ll ever know.” As she

finished her last words a dark cloud of sadness came over me, it was not

until a few moments later that reality came into existence… my own father

had died and I did not get to say good bye. He was never going to be there,

never going to tell me stories, swim with me or tickle me, but the most

agonizing of all, he was never com!

>ing home to say how much he had loved me. After hearing the news everything

was just a blur and I was full of nothing but mixed emotions. At the age of

six this whole situation made no sense. I didn’t comprehend it and all I

felt at the time was massive sorrow and pain… I missed my Father and that

was all that mattered. My relatives and our close family friends rushed to

Atlanta to assist us with anything we needed. I know that they were greatly

appreciated by all of us, chiefly my Mother. Times were immeasurably hard

after the loss of my Father. It was difficult for me to grasp the concept

that my Father was gone forever; I think somewhere in my heart I still

wanted to believe he was just on a “long vacation” and was coming home to

see me soon. I wish that were true but time passed and I came to realize

that this was not going to happen…. I had to face reality and it hurt more

than I have ever hurt before. As time passed we all grew a little bit

happier, we tried to be positi!

>ve and see what we did have instead of what we did not. I had a loving

Mother and sister who I cared for more than anything else and I had my

friends and family who supported me every step of the way. The funeral was

traumatic as expected but knowing that everyone was there and would do

anything to help us through this hard time made the pain a little less

because I found out just how loyal my family and friends really were. My

best friend Alexis even gave me her favorite troll. Even though this may

have meant nothing to other people it was her supreme sacrifice to me.

> Although I wish I could just have one more day with my father I know

that everything happens for a reason and I thank God every day for the

abundance of blessings I do have. I have defeated the painful process of

grieving and although it occasionally pays me a visit, I have yet to let it

take over my life. There are inevitably going to be tough periods throughout

everyone’s lifetime and whether you get through them or let them control you

is where someone’s true strength is revealed. Although my father is

physically dead I am aware of many ways he lives through me. I have

inherited some of his finest qualities and those little traits are my daily

reminders of what my father was like. The best gift that has ever been

bestowed upon me resulted from the outcome of this whole situation and it is

not only a gift I will always value but that I want to share with other

people as well. I know sometimes its hard to see the “sunny side” of life

but you must learn to never let a minu!

>te of your life be wasted. The people and the things that you care for

deeply may not be here a year from now, a month or even a day… so my point

is, don’t waste that “simple” minute because it might end up being the last

chance you have with a person you care for with all your heart. "It is only

when we truly know and understand that we have a limited time on earth and

that we have no way of knowing when our time is up that we will begin to

live each day to the fullest, as if it were the only one we had." ~Elizabeth

Kubler-Ross

>Part One The Meeting

>Chapter One

>

> As I see my friend, he walks down the street, and he seems anxious and

happy. He is wearing a blue shirt with Levis. His shoes are tie died, and

his socks don’t match. It looks as though he just won the lottery.

>

> “ I just bought a lottery ticket! I think its a winner!” he said

excitedly.

>

> “ The chances of that are 1 in a 1,000,000,000.” I said, puncturing

his balloon of happiness. “ In fact, your more likely to get struck by

lightning than win the lottery.”

>

> BBBAAAAAAMMMM! All of a sudden, lightning struck a nearby homeless

person! We ran over to see if he was Al right.

>

> “ I hope he’s okay!” yelled Cody, the one who had bought the lottery

ticket.

>

> “ Would you be okay if you were hit with a lightning bolt?” I asked,

gasping for breath.

>

> Chapter Two

>

> The homeless person turned out to be a homeless man. He was wearing

raggy gray clothes that had a funny stench to them. There as a faded top

that looked 60’s. The only way this was visible is because there were holes

in