A Portrait of the Artist

More!

Sun, 06 Jul 2008 18:55:17 GMT

More that I found from W. Civ.

Disclaimer: it's long as FUCK.

Dante's Inferno

The way to the next layer in the final circle was rough:
My master and I were careful as we descended,
Talking of things we had seen.
As we walked, I asked him, "Whom might I see, and what crimes
Could he have committed to be sent to this
Unreachable place?" and he answered me thus:
"Those who have been exiled here are the ones
Who make a promise, and then reverse it.
They are those who tell thousands of peple
"That something is true, when indeed it is not.
They are those who cannot hold their tongues,
Even when speaking to those who are loyal to them
"And to the same homeland which they themselves claime.
They are those who take advantage of the trust
Of a nation and abuse it horribly."
I pondered my master's words as we walked in silence
Until we came to a vast white building
That had a fountain displayed in front and a flag flying from its pediment.
Upon entering, my wise master led me through silent hallways
To a door which was unlocked,
And we let ourselves in.
The room was decorated in a way that would be fit for a leader,
With the same flag in the corner
As the one flying from the building's exterior.
Seated at a massive desk were two men in formal attire
Surrounded by seven devils who reminded me of our escorts from before,
All arguing about some unknown issue.
On the carpeted blue floor in front of me was an emblem
With a majestic eagle, encircled by white stars
And a red lined border.
As I stood in this mysterious room, I noticed a new smell,
Horrid, and unfamiliar to me,
Unlike the other unbearable smells of Hell.
The smell was one vile and terrible enough that my face contorted.
My master noticed, and knew the cause of my disgust.
He turned to me and said, "What you smell
"Is not something you will smell while you're alive.
It is the smell of treachery,
The smell of making empty promises.
"It is the scent of what I told you these men are here for.
It reminds them of the wretched deeds they committed
During their time on the earth.
"It reminds them of the lies they told,
The false statements they made people believe,
Of the many peple who perished because of what they said."
When my master had finished speaking, I turned
My attention toward the men and the devils in the room.
My master and I drew nearer, so we could hear them.
A devil spoke to one man, and the other devils cheered him on, taunting the man.
"He" (the devil indicated the other man) "said he's going to
marry your wife and send your children away!
"He is going to overthrow you and have your power for himself.
Do you want to know how he told me he'll do it?
You can't stop him anyway!"
The other man protested that he had not said anything of the sort.
The devil was blatantly lying
And he would never do something like that.
The devils jabbed at the men, provoking a fight and calling the men named.
"Hey Monkey-Ears, you don't want Four-Eyes
to destroy your family and take your power like he said he would! Hit him!"
All the time we had been standing there, and never been noticed
Until that point. "Monkey-Ears" looked at us and said,
"Who are you? What are you doing in here? You can't be in here!"
I started to respond, but my master stopped me.
"We're from where the punishment is worse than this,
where people are punished for betraying their guests.
"We are your guests, so do not betray us or you may have to join us
In the next later of Hell."
The man shouted at my master:
"That's not true! You're lying to me! Tell me the truth."
I took my master aside and asked him
Why he had said that which was untrue.
He replied to me, "When speaking to these people, it is not allowed
To use truth. These men rarely conveyed truthful messages
And to be punished for their wrongdoings, they are to be lied to.
"The job of these devils is to convince the men things that are deliberate lies.
Anything you hear in here has at least an air of untruth to it.
You cannot believe everything you will hear from these men.
"but go ahead, ask them for their accounts. See what they say."
And so I turned to the two men: Monkey-Ears, a grey-haired man
With prominent ears and dark, beady eyes.
And Four-Eyes, who had thinning white hair
Small, circular glasses, and an evil expression on his face.
"Sirs," I addressed them, "If you will, please answer my questions.
"Who are you both, and why are you here?"
Monkey-Ears began: "My name is George W. Bush.
Before I expired on earth
"I was the greatest President of the unites Sates of America to hold office.
Forty-two men held office before I did,
But none had the calling I had.
"I knew that God wanted me to be President.
So I did what God wanted me to do.
I took care of America as best I could.
"I gave tax-cuts to people who needed it.
I made non-Christian and therefore unclean rites illegal and unconstitutional.
I did what God would have done as the United States President.
"But I did some things that my country did not like.
I told my country that I thought another country
Might have access to weapons of mass destruction
"Which they might use to hurt America.
This, here," (gesturing to "Four-Eyes")
"Was Dick Cheney, my vice President.
"We told a few white lies about Iraq, the country
That we thought had the WMDs,
To keep the American citizens calm.
"We did not want our citizens to be upset,
So we told them what would pacify them."
At that moment, a devil who had been listening intently to the President's story
Picked up a Bible off the desk, opened it,
And tapped the President on the shoulder.
"President Monkey-Ears, sir, look what I found!
"It says in here that God did not want you to be President!"
In the Bible, where the Ten Commandments were written,
The tenth commandment was blacked out.
Next to it was scrawled, "10. Thou shalt not elect to political office
and member of the Bush family."
The President was distraught and could not finish what he had been saying.
The Vice-President picked up Mr. Bush's story.
He explained how later, they discovered
That Iraq had no WMDs at all.
One thing led to another, and soon nothing that Mr. Bush did
Could sate the citizens, even those who had initially supported him.
The citizens were horrified that their leader,
In whom they had put their trust, had lied to them.
Presently, though, I grew tired of the Vice-President's story,
And was sickened by the Scent of Lies.
My master led me out of the room so my stomach did not react to the smell.
We made our was back through the hallways,
Once more in silence.
Outside of the building, I saw the flag flying from it.
I was reminded of the horrible lies told to the citizens,
And was repulsed.

Merited an A-. I wrote a lot of political propaganda for W. Civ because I know Bill and Judy well, and knew that they would respond well to it. Which they did.

Divinely comedic,
Allie.

Sun, 06 Jul 2008 18:22:59 GMT

I found some pieces in my old Western Civ binder.

CHAPTER XXXI

How Candide, Martin and Cacambo
Traveled West to the New World of America
And What Happened to Them There

CANDIDE remained married to the once beautiful but now wretched Cunegonde for a number of years. Each day Candide and Cacambo and Martin took an hour-long walk through the succulent forest behind their humble garden and talked of philosophy and other such topics. Candide and Martin still disgreed about some topics, which is why both men particularly enjoyed these walks. Cacambo never said much but knew the land better than either Candide or Martin, so he always led them along a new path and home safely. Candide took pleasure in these adventures because he never was able to travel anymore now that he was married.

One afternoon of the most pleasant nature in the spring, Cacambo led Candide and Martin on their walk down to the waterfront where a ship was being loaded up with exports. A man dressed in a sailor's outfit approached and addressed them:

'Oh, good fortune,' he said to them, 'You could be just what I need! I am the captain of that grand ship you see there, and we have just lost three of our shipmates for our journey to America! But now here you are, three able looking gentlemen. Please, sirs, but would you kindly replace them, for the journey and back? We leave the port later this afternoon, and will stay in America for a month, when we will return.'

Just at the same moment that Candide heard the man's request, he was reminded of his days of travel and the adventures he had had. He had only met Cacambo and Martin, his two favorite companions, through traveling! But he couldn't possibly leave Cunegonde. She would never allow it.

While Candide was considering how to persuade Cunegonde, he noticed Pangloss, his teacher, running down to the port from the direction of their house.

'Candide,' he cried, 'Cunegonde has fallen ill! You must return to the house to tend to her!'

'Oh, Pangloss, my revered teacher,' Candide replied, thinking quickly, 'Cacambo, Martin and I have decided to sail to America to find the best treatments for her. I should be back soon. We leave this afternoon. Tell Cunegonde I shall return to help her recover.'

Pangloss returned to the house while Candide, Cacambo and Martin learned to man the ship. They learned quickly and after a few weeks of sailing, through storms and smooth waters, the ship approached the New World.

But a day before they were to dock, the ship was overtaken by a final storm. Martin and a good deal of the rest of the crew were thrown overboard to their death. Candide mourned for some time over the death of MAtin, but knew that it must be for the best in this, the best of all possible worlds.

Candide and Cacambo began to adjust to their new surroundings. They marveled at the buildings that seemed to scrape the sky, and at the differently colored carriages that seemed not to beed to be drawn by horses. Some were yellow and had the letters 'T,' 'A,' 'X,' and 'I' painted on the sides, which appeared to take anyone anywhere they wanted to go.

'Where ought we to go?' Candide asked Cacambo.

'I have heard,' Cacambo said, 'of a place called "Washington D.C.,' where I believe their King lives.'

'Then we shall go there and demand to see their King,' Candide announced, 'and request that he teach us about his New World.'

But Candide realized that he did not know how to attract one of these 'TAXI' carriages to take him to 'Washington D.C.' He decided that the best way was to stand in front of one so it would see him there. As he was running out into the road to hail a 'TAXI,' he was hit by one of these self-driven carriages, and he was left unconscious.

***

Candide awoke in a white room, where he was greeted by Cacambo sitting in a chair beside his bed.

'Candide, a letter came for you today,' Cacambo said to him handing him an envelope.

'"Dear Student,"' Candide read, '"I am sorry to hear of your leg injury,"' Candide had broken his leg when hit by the carriage. '"and I hate to tell you this now, with you in your condition, but your dear wife Cunegonde has died. Sincerely, your lifelong teacher, Pangloss." Well, now we have no obligation to return home. Let us remain here and make ourselves a new life.'

A door in the white room opened and in walked a familiar looking man dressed in a long white coat.

'Are you the King?' Candide asked the man, 'Is this Washington D.C.?'

The man laughed, and then looked at Candide.

'Candide?' he said, 'Could that be you?'

'Martin!' Candide said, surprised. 'The idea of its being you! But you drowned in the shipwreck; you are dead!'

'No not I!' Martin said, and begain to tell his story. 'As a child I was taught very well to swim. And this is not the first shipwreck that I have survived. Once, when I was a boy, my parents and I were traveling, and our ship was caught in a storm with the same nature as the one we have just survived. I was the only passenger not killed in the sea, and I swam to shore.

'And in such a way did I save myself again. I swam to the first land that I saw. I quickly became acquainted with the land and the people in the land, and went to school to become a doctor. So here I am, as your doctor. What an idea!'

'Yes, indeed,' Candide replied, 'That storm was for the best, for if you had not been thrown overboard, you never would have become a doctor to be my doctor. This is the best thing that could have happened to us!'

Dr. Martin healed Candide's broke leg, and soon Candide was able to walk again.

Martin himself quit his job at the hospital so that he could accompany Candide and Cacambo on their adventures in America, the New World. They were able to afford lavish dinners and nice 'cars,' as the self-driven carriage were called (Martin had learned to operate them), because Martin had made a good deal of money working.

Candide said to them, 'The first thing I would like to do here is travel to "Washington D.C." and meet the King of this place.'

'We call him our President,' said Martin, 'and a scholar like you would never want to meet someone as uneducated as America's President. You will wonder how he even came to run a country. He claims that God made him President! We shall not see the President.'

Candide and Cacambo took Martin's advice, and Martin chose to take them to the next most famous place in America.

'It's a magical, wonderful place,' Martin explained, 'Some people call it the "happiest place on earth." You might like it. It's called Disney World.'

So it was decided that they would travel to Disney World, in a wonderful, tropical part of the country called Florida, for Candide knew that it would be the best option in this, the best of all possible worlds.

Yeahhhhhhh.
It was long to type up. But read it. You probably won't understand it if you haven't read Candide, in terms of the ridiculous-ness of everything that happens butttttt.....it's good stuff anyway.

Satirically,
Allie.

Writer's block.

Fri, 09 May 2008 05:08:02 GMT

I want to be inspired by the mundane things that happen in my life. I suppose that the point of something being mundane is that it is not inherently inspiring; and yet, there are people who can write effortlessly about something so everyday you barely even give it a second though.

I'd like to think I'm technically a good writer. When I have something to write about (whether it be compulsory or by my own choice), I'm pretty confident that I have the ability to organize words in a way that clearly (even eloquently, perhaps?) articulates my point. I know almost everything there is to know about grammar, and properly demonstrate my skill.

But I rarely have my own inspiration; and who ever really benefited from being able to write good analytical papers?

I think that is the difference between a writer and an artist. A writer knows how to write; they may even be artistic with their writing. But an artist can see art in anything and write about it artistically.

Musings...

Mon, 05 May 2008 00:15:03 GMT

I posted this in a note on facebook but since I could only tag 30 people in it, and I'm also quite proud of the writing in it, I'm posting it here, opening it up to everyone; read, ponder, comment. Rinse, and repeat.

A Change is Gonna Come

My first year of college is almost over. The first year of the preparation for the rest of my life. In four days I'll be going home, leaving the year behind and also leaving behind, hopefully, every stupid thing I did, every mistake I made, every offense I committed...

Before you go to college people will tell you that college changes you. It's true, and the change in you is what you make it. The change is dependent on your past and your hopes for the future.

If you're like me and went to public high school and lived at home with your parents, and are going to be living away from home for the first time in your life, the difference that college poses you is obvious. You have so much more freedom than you did in high school. You're independent within the campus. You can come home whenever you want, you can go out and skive off your work, you can drink and party without your parents even knowing, you don't even have to go to class. You're surrounded by your friends all of the time instead of your family and your life is very much more of a social life than it was when you lived with your family and had parents looking over your shoulder and having authority.

I wish I had made this analysis before coming to college. Because of the freedom I've had, I've made some major faux pas and fouls that I didn't even know I was making. I've done things I never had the opportunity to do ever before, for whatever reason, met people and formed relationships with them that I never had the opportunity to do before, and acted in ways I never would have imagined myself acting.

There have been some really good things that have come of this year, too. I learned that studying something I actually care about, as opposed to the generic classes you take to earn your high school diploma, motivates me so much more than ever before, and as a result I have a higher GPA than I ever did in high school.

Another good thing to come of this year - I joined a sorority which, along with being something I never would have expected to do, has been a really good opportunity for me to learn about myself including meeting and becoming close with tons of other girls.

I also have learned to appreciate things I previously took for granted. Until they weren't right by my side 24/7, I didn't realize how much my family meant to me (it's silly, for sure, that it took me eighteen years to do this) and how badly I need the unconditional love that they can give me.

So as this year draws to a close, I'm looking back at how college has changed me so far and how I can use the knowledge I've gained to shape the next three or four years of my life. What have I gleaned from my first two semesters that will help me make the next six to eight semesters what I want them to be?

First of all - you mustn't take yourself too seriously. You'll never have any fun if you take yourself too seriously. Be diligent but allow yourself some time to play when you can.

Next - be aware of your surroundings. Know what you are getting yourself into in every situation you put yourself in.

Also, watch the way you treat people. They will be forgiving to a point but when you make mistake after mistake and don't make any effort to change yourself and the way you are treating them, they have every right to be angry with you.

Think about consequences before you do anything. Like I said, you don't want to take yourself too seriously, but that doesn't mean you should have a total disregard for the way you portray yourself.

I began writing this as a response to a note that a friend wrote about how she changed over the past year. I intended to recount events and analyze my actions but this is what came out instead. And to close, I shall ask: how has college changed you? Or, for those of you who haven't gone yet, what changes do you expect to come for you when you enter college?

With summer approaching and me having some free time, I hope to do some more writing. While I love doing what I love 24/7 [music], I miss the satisfaction of creation [my only form of creativity is in the themed mix CDs that I make for people]. So you might be hearing more from me in the next few months. I certainly hope, for my own sake, that you will. I miss writing a lot.

Pensively,
Allie.

Sat, 16 Jun 2007 23:57:41 GMT

This one did relatively well! Although the class thought the character was a douchebag, and I model her after stuff I actually do. But whatever.
Cause it would have gotten an A if I hadn't passed it in about a week and a half late. Oh well. I'm still quite proud of it. Please read!

Writing Tickets

"To whom it may concern:
Just because you drive a car that cost you three times what my car cost me doesn’t mean that your entitled to three times the parking space that everyone else is."

The parking spots in front of the convenience store across the street from my apartment are slanted, to the left, so that they're not perpendicular to the sidewalk. Because of this, it's possible to occupy more than one spot, if you're too lazy and arrogant to fix your crappy parking job. You'd be surprised how many people really are lazy and arrogant.

Perhaps the worst case of this I saw was three summers ago. It was a Wednesday afternoon, about 2:30, and I had run across the street to grab a box of Pearls, a tube of mascara and a Cosmo.

Living across the street from this shop, I had developed a keen eye for poor parking jobs; seeing how many people had such big egos that they felt they deserved more than one space had made me quite passionate. I felt it was my duty to reprimand those selfish drivers that I noticed. I saved receipts and always had a pen in my purse so I didn’t miss any chance to share with people a piece of my mind.

On this particular day, I walked out through the automatic sliding doors at the drug store and my eyes were immediately drawn to an iridescent emerald Jaguar – had to be brand new, I could tell it was the 2003 model of the XKR – parked at exactly the right angle that it took up three spaces.

Inside the store, I had crumpled up my receipt and shoved it into my wallet. When I saw the Jaguar, my fingers began to tingle; I frenziedly fumbled through my purse to retrieve my wallet and a blue ball-point pen.

Pressing against the stucco wall of the drug store, I smoothed the receipt and spoke as I wrote:

"To...whom...it...may...concern..."

My handwriting was nearly illegible, due to a combination of my ferocious passion and the bumpy wall I was using as a tablet.

"...that...everyone...else...is!" I mumbled conclusively as I finished with my scribbled signature, "3C," my apartment number. With my parking ticket tucked under the Jaguar's windshield wiper, I hurried back across the street to my building.

The next afternoon I shut the door to my building as I was setting out to walk my restless dachshund. I turned to face the street and saw, to my frustration, the very same Jaguar, parked in the very same three spots.

My dog could wait for a minute. My fingers began to itch again and my hands searched through all of my pockets with a mind of their own for a pen; I don't bring my purse to walk my dog, though, and I was lacking the one thing I needed.

Less than a minute later I was striding across the street, pen and extra receipt in hand, having skipped steps all the way back up to my apartment for my weapon of choice.

"Twice in a row?" I wrote, "You really must have an elevated opinion of your self to take up three parking spots in the same lot twice. Please learn to be courteous of other people, or stop driving."

I tucked this note under the windshield, like the other, and was walking away from the car with my dog as I heard the doors to the drug store slide open. I watched from my peripheral vision as a tall man with unkempt hair and wearing designer jeans and a corduroy blazer walked toward the Jaguar.

My heart pounded. I knew he was reading my note right now, but I couldn't watch. Seeing the owner of the car all of a sudden made it real to me, and I didn't want to watch as he tore up my note and drove over it in his brand new car, or chuckled as he burned it with his zippo lighter; he could not have the last laugh, and if he did I would not watch.

But I didn't hear his car turn on and drive away, and after a while I turned around to see what he was doing. His car was right where it had been before, but at first I couldn't see him. I caught motion from the corner of my eye, and followed it. There was the man, opening the door to my apartment building, and stepping inside.

I couldn't stop thinking about this man and his car as I took my dog on the usual route around the city. I nearly walked into three parking meters and a USPS mailbox. Within five minutes, I had become obsessed. What could that man have been doing in my apartment building? As I had left the building at first I was furious, but now my anger had become intense curiosity.

As I rounded the corner to return to my building, I checked the drug store parking lot. The car was gone. I felt my heart sink a little, knowing now that I would never know what he was doing in my building.

Inside my building I stopped in the mailroom and unlocked my box. Of course, all bills, I thought as I grabbed the mountain of envelopes with clear plastic windows that revealed my name. But my box wasn't empty yet. A white slip of paper lay on the bottom of it.

I picked it up and read it: "To whom it may concern: Just because..." it was my note from the day before, only the second word of the fourth line was circled in red sharpie, and underneath it was written "you're."

Stapled to the first note was another receipt which I soon found to be the very same note I had written just half an hour before. On this one, the words "your" and "self" were circled in the same red sharpie; next to it read, "yourself is one word."

Correcting my spelling and grammar now? Of course, I shouldn't have signed them 3C, it's obvious what that stands for.

"Come on," I muttered to my dog, who was scratching himself in the corner. I grabbed my mail and my receipts and headed upstairs.

The next day was Friday, and on Fridays I had to pick up my sister's daughter Michaela at her day care at 2:30 and bring her to my apartment until my sister's ex-husband could come to pick her up (I knew it was only fueling the fire, but my sister and her ex refused to talk, so I had become the intermediary when it came to Michaela). The two days before, the Jaguar had been parked in front of the drug store at the same time, and I wondered if it would be there today as well.

Sure enough, I looked out the window as I was getting ready to go get Michaela, and there was the Jaguar. There it was, but this time the driver had taken care to park it in just one spot. I had no reason to leave a note.

And yet...I had to. I may have started this conversation, but I didn't expect him to open it up, and he would not have the last word, I was sure. I tore a blank page from a small notebook I used to keep track of my gas mileage and found a pen from my top desk drawer.

"Do not correct my grammar. –3C" I took care to write neatly.

I locked my door behind me and watched the doors of the drug store as I crossed the street. I told myself it was because I didn’t want him to see who it was leaving these notes on his car; but I knew I really did want him to come find me, the unofficial parking police.

I took my time as I lifted the windshield wiper a tiny bit and slid my note between the wiper and the glass. He didn’t seem to be coming out of the drug store any time soon, so I took the note out and replaced it, stalling.

I could only neaten the note so many times. My only hope was that, as I walked away, he'd come out of the drug store and remember me as the dog-walking-girl from the day before. He'd call to me, "Hey, you," and we’d shout at each other for a few minutes. He'd suggest that we discuss this over dinner, but over dinner we'd end up talking about our lives and the people in our lives and our internal conflicts. We'd realize that we had so much in common, and he'd ask me for a second date. Which would really be a first date because this had not really been a date.

But I heard no "Hey, you." I walked as slowly as I could from the parking lot, but I wasn't summoned back.

When I returned with Michaela I checked my mailbox. I flipped through the bills again and again, hoping there'd be a note commending me on my impeccable grammar and spelling on my most recent note. Nothing there.

I slumped up to 3C, wondering why he hadn’t responded to my latest note. Every day for the next week I watched out my window at 2:30 for a green Jaguar in the parking lot across the street.

But it never came. I never saw the green Jaguar or its well-dressed grammarian driver again.

Comments? Criticism? Advice?
Douchily,
Allie.

more creativity

Wed, 02 May 2007 19:59:38 GMT

Okay, here's the one we workshopped in class yesterday.

Timothy sat at the edge of his seat, sweater in hand, backpack on his back, waiting for three o'clock when the final bell rang; it announced to the teachers that it was time to lead their classes out to the busses. They were no longer in charge. What the rest of the day held for each student was up to him.

"Three...two...one," Timothy whispered as he watched the clock anxiously.

Brrrrrrring! Timothy was always the first student out of his seat, and rushed to start the line in the doorway.

The bus ride home always seemed longer than the ten minutes it actually took. Timothy lived quite close to school, something for which he was particularly thankful every day because he knew that some of the kids in his fifth grade class lived farther across town and their rides were longer than his.

He didn't much like talking to the kids on his bus. All he could think about was what sort of adventures he might have after school today, and he knew he couldn't tell the other kids. They'd just be jealous, and they'd want in on it. No, he'd let them stick to their piano lessons and soccer practice and whatever else it was that they did each day.

"Don't run!" Edna, the bus driver called to Timothy, like she did every day as he hurried off the bus and up his driveway. Timothy crashed through the big red door and quickly discarded his sweater and backpack in the mudroom.

"Hi," Timothy said to Tanja, the German au pair who watched Timothy's four-year-old brother Francis until his parents came home from their jobs. "Bye!" Timothy called as he raced through the family room and out the sliding back doors.

"Be back in time for dinner!" Tanja called, like she did every day. Timothy always came back in time for dinner.

Timothy ran down the deck stairs and into the woods behind his house, donning a set of knight's armor and carrying a knight's sword. Sir Timothy had a job to do, and he was ready to do it.

The Chocolate Forest was quiet today. It was called the Chocolate Forest because, underneath their thick bark, the trees were filled with creamy Swiss chocolate. It was a crime to cut down a tree in the Chocolate Forest; the king had had to establish this law, or else the chocolatiers in the land would shirk their work and cut down the Chocolate Trees to sell their delicious insides. The Chocolate Trees must remain standing because otherwise the animals who depended on their Chocolate Fruits to live would become extinct.

Sir Timothy just had to wait. Soon, Sybil the Dragon would meet him and she'd take him to where he needed to go. He didn't quite know what it was he was supposed to be doing today but he was pretty sure he could handle it. After all, it had been he who had blinded the Cyclops in Sicily; he, Sir Timothy, had solved the Thebian Sphinx's riddle; his success in things like this were what prompted the King to knight him and favor him over the other knights. Sir Timothy was the best at the job.

Sir Timothy heard the beating of powerful wings, and he shielded his eyes from the sun as he watched Sybil make her descent from the sky. She landed, caught her breath (sparks sometimes flew out of her mouth as she was catching her breath; Sir Timothy loved when that happened).

"I've just spoken with the King," she related to Sir Timothy, "The daughter of the King in the country to the North was kidnapped. Claire is her name, and her father, Harold, had just been making a business deal with our King which would mean lower taxes for the peasants. But since Claire was kidnapped, he has fallen into such a deep depression that no one can speak to him. And as you know, the King likes to be in favor with all of the citizens and the harvests aren’t bringing in enough crops for the peasants to have any money left over from their taxes."

"So, I save the princess, bring her back to her father, and we're good?" Sir Timothy asked.

"Absolutely," Sybil replied, "No one knows who kidnapped her, but she was last seen with Tony, that rotten dragon that was behind the murder of that Scottish king...you know the one, right?"

"Oh, yeah," Sir Timothy said, "The big fat one?"

"Well, he has been putting on some weight lately. Anyway, you shouldn't have any trouble finding him. I mean, he's not particularly bright and he never bathes so you should be able to smell him from a hundred miles away."

"Alright," Sir Timothy said, and grasped the handle of his sword in its sheath.

"Good luck, Sir Timothy," Sybil said, "I’d love to help you, but I don't know anything more beyond that and, frankly, I don't think you're going to need much help. You’re a pro."

"I've got it from here," Sir Timothy agreed. "I'll see you later," he called as Sybil flapped off to the west. He watched the late afternoon sun gleam off of her iridescent violet back. She was quite a dragon.

Sir Timothy put his thumb and middle finger up against his teeth and whistled loudly; presently, Sir Timothy heard another pair of wings beating in the sky, and then a set of paws padding through the forest. Toern and Cerby were, respectively, a hippogriff and a three-headed-dog, both good friends of Sybil's who always provided Sir Timothy whatever help they could on his missions. Usually he didn't need their help but he enjoyed their company.

"What's up today?" Cerby's left head asked dutifully.

"Saving the princess Claire," Sir Timothy explained, "Daughter of King Harold, who is doing business with our King, too depressed to function, et cetera."

"Last seen?" Toern questioned.

'With Tony. You know..." Sir Timothy replied.

"Oh, yeah, that big fat dragon?" Cerby's right head interrupted.

"Don’t interrupt!" the middle head said.

"He's not too bright, is he?" the left head said. The right head gave the left head a dirty look, "I meant Tony, not you..." The left head said.

"Yeah, we should probably get going, though, we're off to a late start," Sir Timothy said as he climbed onto Toern's back. "I thought we'd go to the south, because Tony's not clever and he'd just try to take the girl as far from the north as he could."

"Sounds good," the hippogriff agreed, flapping his wings and hovering just a bit off of the ground.

They soared off to the south, Cerby galloping beneath them on the ground. He ran remarkably fast; Cerby was an orphan, but everyone thought that he was part greyhound (the other part was probably Great Dane, but no one could be sure).

Sir Timothy held his helmet in his lap and the wind blew through his blond curls. He closed his eyes; he loved flying. It was the greatest sensation.

The sound of three dogs barking interrupted Sir Timothy's calm. Toern dove down to hear what Cerby was trying to tell them. What it sounded like he was saying was that he picked up the stench of rotten onions mixed with buffalo sauce and he thought they were getting close.

Sure enough, just in the distance Sir Timothy could see a tall grey castle which had been abandoned centuries before, and near the tallest tower he could see a bright orange blob whose features appeared draconic as they drew nearer.

"Yep, that's Tony alright," Sir Timothy muttered, watching as the bumbling mass of a dragon reached for another buffalo griffin wing from the paper bucket at his side. Tony was leaning against the side of the tower, flipping through a magazine.

"Alright, we're going to need to detour through the woods, because if he sees us my idea won't work. He's dumb...but he's not that dumb." Toern followed Sir Timothy's instructions and gave a signal to Cerby to indicate what they had decided to do.

Toern slowly maneuvered through the woods and Cerby continued to follow on foot underneath. They reached the edge of the wood and could see Tony much more clearly. He could only be forty yards from them.

"Okay, put me in this tree," Sir Timothy instructed. "This is gonna be easy!" he said to himself.

Standing on the tree branch, Sir Timothy grasped his helmet in both hands, wound up, and pitched it past Tony's face. He watched hopefully as Tony blinked, and looked away from his magazine. His beady black eyes followed the helmet as it flew past them, into the forest on the other side of the castle. All of a sudden he dropped his magazine and the griffin wing he was in the middle of and bounded off to retrieve the helmet.

"Bravo!" Cerby's three heads called from below, "brilliant idea."

Sir Timothy climbed onto Toern's back again and they flew towards the window of the tower. Sir Timothy peeked in at the beauty inside. She was sitting on a dusty footstool, leaning over with her head in her hands, and her long blond hair covered her face, but Sir Timothy knew she was beautiful. They always were.

"Princess Claire," Sir Timothy called to her, and she look up at him.

"Oh," she said with a confused look on her face, "Who are you?"

"I'm Sir Timothy," Sir Timothy said nonchalantly. "I'm here to save you."

The princess blinked and cocked her head. "Oh, why thank you, Sir Timothy!" She dragged the footstool over to the window, climbed onto it, and extended her hand for Sir Timothy to help her climb onto the hippogriff. Sir Timothy took it and pulled her onto the beast's back. Toern made a quick U-turn and headed toward the north, with Cerby following again beneath.

"Oh, Toern," Sir Timothy said as he looked westward, "It's getting dark. I need to get home, can you drop me off at the Chocolate Forest and take the princess from there?"

"No problem, boss," Toern replied.

The princess, who had her arms wrapped around Sir Timothy's waist, grasped him tighter and said, "Oh, no, I wish that you'd accompany us all the way back home. My father will be delighted to meet my...Knight in Shining Armor." She giggled coyly.

"Oh, this old thing?" Sir Timothy said, "I've been looking for a new metal-smith. This set has become quite passé. Anyway, dear, I'd love to stay and chat but I really have things I must attend to back home. Dinner will be waiting for me."

The princess sighed. Sir Timothy always left them disappointed. Ah, well...he thought. That's your life when you're a swashbuckling knight and epic hero...

They finally reached the Chocolate Forest and as they passed over the trees Sir Timothy plucked himself a chocolate apple which he would save for dessert.

"Well, I guess I'll see you tomorrow," Sir Timothy said to Toern and Cerby.

"Will I get to see you tomorrow?" Princess Claire asked.

"Chin up," Sir Timothy whispered, "If we're meant to be, we'll see each other again."

Princess Claire smiled reluctantly and nodded as the hippogriff took off to return her to her father.

Sir Timothy took off his armor. He'd get a new helmet tomorrow to replace the one he'd sacrificed earlier.

Timothy breathed in deeply as he walked up the steps of his deck and back into his family room.

"Just in time," his mother said as she placed the fifth plate on the kitchen table. "What did you do today, Timothy?" The whole family and Tanja looked on eagerly to hear his epic tale.

He wanted to tell them everything, so they could be proud of their gallant boy, but Timothy knew they'd never believe him. "He has an active imagination," they'd say.

"Oh, you know," he sighed, "Nothing much. Just, the usual."

I was really surprised at the class's response to it. They really liked it! I thought that if I had been reading it as someone else's work, I would have been annoyed with it because there's no particular conflict and no climax and whatever.

But that's okay! I'm not complaining.
Even Alex Isakov, who has something to say about EVERYONE's piece (annoying criticisms, usually...like "you spelled blah blah blah wrong" or whatever) didn't say anything, and then after class he was like "I really liked your piece..." and I was waiting for a "...but..." and so he was like "No, I thought it was perfect!"

Um.
Okay.
That's fine with me.

Fantastically,
Allie.

Wed, 02 May 2007 03:34:21 GMT

This is what I wrote for my first short story that was due in creative writing. I literally wrote it at eleven o'clock the night before it was due and, personally, felt it very trite.

However, I think it showcases my writing style quite well.
And a collection of writing isn't a collection unless it includes everything.

The Bridge

Two nine year old girls collected sticks as they walked through the woods behind the red-haired-girl's house. The brown-haired-girl went to the red-haired-girl's house every day after school and as soon as the weather got nice they would make the same journey out through the same path to the same bridge, collecting sticks along the way.

When they got to the bridge each day, Evie would drop her pile of sticks on the planks and quickly count them.

"Twenty-three," she would announce, if she had twenty-three sticks. "How many do you have, Bridget?"

Bridget always laid her sticks out, each parallel to the next, in size order from longest on the left to shortest on the right.

"Fifteen," Bridget would reply after carefully counting the sticks twice. She would divide the total number of sticks into equal groups. If she had fifteen sticks, there would be five piles of three sticks.

Every day Evie dispatched her sticks the same way: by gathering them all up in her arms, standing on her tip-toes to reach over the railing on the bridge, and then dropping them all at once into the water on the up-stream side of the bridge. She would dart to the other side of the bridge as her sticks floated down-stream and watch to see which stick passed under the bridge first.

Bridget sent each stick forth separately. She made one wish everyday, and wished it on each stick as she dropped it into the stream. She didn't know where the stream went, and she didn't know which wishes would come true. Bridget liked thinking that the wishes on the sticks and the stream had some significance, though she would never know.

This particular day, though, Evie was getting restless. The same thing every day was nice if you liked that, but Evie was an explorer. She had found this bridge in the first place two winters ago when the stream was nearly frozen over, and she and Bridget had spent the day throwing pebbles at the stream, breaking the thin layers of ice that covered it. And then she had discovered the stick game. Well, she might have heard it once in a Winnie-the-Pooh book, she couldn't really remember.

In any case, this same thing every day was getting boring. Evie needed more, she needed some variety in her life! She wanted to see what the stream led to, and where the stream came from.

Bridget liked routine, and Evie knew this. She had wanted to travel down-stream for a long time, but knew Bridget wouldn't go. But today she had a good feeling. There were five days of school left and today was the day that the third grade class had done their last homework of the year and Evie wanted to celebrate.

"Bridget," she said, "What if we follow the stream today?"

Bridget, on the other hand, was having a strange day. Everything was routine, like usual, but she had a funny feeling, like something was different even though everything seemed the same. She usually knew what she was going to wish on the sticks for by the time the school bus dropped the girls off at Evie's driveway; but today she didn't know what to wish for.

"I don't know," Bridget fumbled with her sticks as she laid them out in the line, like usual. "I'm not in the mood to go exploring."

"Please?" Evie squirmed as she spoke, "Pretty please? With sugar on top?"

"No," Bridget said decisively, "I don't think I want to. I like it here."

Evie was getting annoyed. She didn't think she could sit on this bridge for one more afternoon.

"Fine, maybe I'll just go by myself," Evie humphed. Bridget looked up from her sticks and straight into Evie's eyes.

"Fine, maybe you should!" she snapped.

'Maybe I will!" Evie said as she climbed down to the muddy shoulder of the stream.

"Okay!" Bridget frowned at Evie, rudely retorting, "I'll see you later."

Bridget watched as her best friend's bright red hair and sky blue t-shirt faded into the woods. She still didn't know what she was going to wish for.

For a moment, as Bridget paused from her toil lining up the sticks, the afternoon noises of a forest calmed her, and she took pleasure in the songs of the birds that she heard every day but never really listened to.

Bridget forgot about her sticks as she lay down on her back on the bridge, and looked up through the green at the blue sky. She knocked a stick off of the bridge with her foot.

"Friends forever," she said sarcastically, and sighed. She knocked the next stick into the water, and the next, one after another, blessing each with the same words.

As minutes passed, her own words rung in her ears. She sat up and suddenly the forest’s song became irrelevant.

What if Evie were in trouble down-stream and needed help but she didn't call for Bridget because they were in a fight? What if she tripped and fell, and couldn't get up? What if she inhaled a swarm of gnats and couldn't breathe and suffocated to death?

Bridget assuaged her own fears by reminding herself that really bad things only happen in the movies and in books, and they always get better. Anyway, she was always worried, so this was probably just her imagination acting up again.

Bridget nodded off lying on the bridge in the warm afternoon and when she awoke she saw familiar red hair wearing a familiar blue t-shirt and heard a familiar voice.

But who was Evie talking to? Bridget sat up and saw, standing on her tip-toes beside Evie as they peeked over the railing on the bridge, a girl with thick, stick-straight black hair.

"Bridget, this is Victoria," Evie seemed to have forgotten about being in a fight, "She plays the stick-game on her bridge too! We're friends now."

Bridget smiled stiffly as Victoria turned to her and gave her a beaming view of her beautiful white teeth.

***

The next day the bus dropped Evie and Bridget at Evie's driveway, but Bridget knew that Evie was eager to see her new friend. She turned out of the driveway and walked slowly down the street to her own house.

"Bridget," Evie called after her, "Aren't you going to come sit on the bridge with me and Victoria?"

Bridget smiled, turned to Evie, and shook her head.

"Bye, Evie," she said, "I'll see you later."

I am aware of the fact that I have already used the name Evie. I like the name, kay?

Bridget, I hope you're okay with the fact that I used your name. It doesn't have anything to do with you. When I write I try to use names that don't sound pretensious or trite in my head, and Bridget was one of them.

Bridgely,
Allie.

Wed, 02 May 2007 03:22:47 GMT

The prompt was to write.

So I wrote this:

"Think it's going to rain?" she asked.

He looked up and at the sky, wondering why she would have asked that, today of all days. It was the sunniest day of the year yet, and the weather reports on TV and online had predicted sun and seventy degrees all day.

Maybe she hadn't seen the weather. Maybe she didn't care enough in the morning to check the TV with everyone else to see if it was supposed to rain.

Anyway, it hadn't rained on any day this week for the past seven years. He knew that for a face. He had been keeping track of the weather every day for eleven years now. He knew these things.

"Hope not," he responded.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, side by side on the bench.

Then she turned to him and asked, "Think it's going to rain today?"

Unprompted...ly,
Allie.

Wed, 14 Mar 2007 03:06:08 GMT

Wrote this tonight, inspired by W.B. Yeats' The Second Coming.

It's for Creative Writing.

The Second Coming

The hour is come at last
The beast once again slouches
Down Pennsylvania Ave.
Surely some revelation is at hand
His left hand
Placed on a Bible
The Second Coming is in his hand.

Things fell apart.
The center could not, and did not hold.
I know now that an eight-year nightmare
Is halfway over.
The reality of the darkness
Drops.
Again.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon must obey the falconer
Though he knows he shouldn’t.

Things fell apart.
Things will fall apart.
And yet the best
Are filled with passionate intensity.
And the center will regain strength.

I don't know.
I just wrote it and thought I'd post it.
Do you like it?

Poetically,
Allie.

Wed, 14 Feb 2007 05:00:26 GMT

Also! One more from Creative writing.
It's really no good, the assignment was to write a Prose Poem. Well, I have no idea what that is.
This is what came out.

The battlefront is a bloody one
drawn out seiges plague my living room
unnecessary
we're both adamant
her, with good reason
me, almost to the point of stubbornness
I do NOT want to
why do I have to
PRACTICE?

Then all changes
all it takes is some genuine
inspiration, profound love, passion
without warning my sould became
consumed, overwhelmed, immersed
with my music
my desire to make are
my art
practicing isn't work
it is life, love, knowledge, truth

The battle has been placated
she won, you say
what have I lost in her victory?
she may have won the battle
but it turns out we were on the same side
and I'm winning our war.

Yea, I want to go to music school. So what.

This really isn't any good but again there is no point in calling this a collection of writing if it isn't all of my writing.

Poetically [NOT],
Allie.

Wed, 14 Feb 2007 04:10:41 GMT

Yes, it has been since the last time I posted that I've actually written anything.

I've tried in vain. My hand is just not what it used to be.

Anyway, I wrote this poem in creative writing today. We read a poem by Billy Collins about Smokey the Bear, and our prompt was "corrupting childhood icons." I used an idea I've been toying with for quite a while now, so it was cool to have an occasion to use it.

Claus

It's always cold there
the factory isn't heated
Employing the desperate for
$2.50 an hour --
there's no minimum wage --
The roar of the wild machines
blocks out all other noise,
ringing even past the end of
the grueling work day.
But the worst days are
when the wicked whiskered boss
galumphs through the grimacing gate
and the dismal factory is graced
with his Majesty's presence
His happy "ho-ho-ho" sounds this
against the "chug-chug" of the chains
and whirring of the machines.
We're at the mercy of Saint Nick.

Thoughts? Comments? Criticism?

Corruptively,
Allie.

Hmm. College.

Tue, 10 Oct 2006 18:54:19 GMT

I say ix-nay on the other college essay because it was a) long. b) crap [in my opinion]. c) not unique enough.

I drank a Diet Rock Star at 9:30 last night (ba-a-ad idea) and couldn't sleep until 2 o'clock. So, to pass the time, I wrote this essay. I had been thinking a lot about writing it and hadn't gotten around to it. So I did it when I had nothing else to do.

"Music of the Heart"

At my most recent physical, my doctor told me I have a musical heart.

I wasn’t sure what she meant by that but I liked the sound of it. Anything involving music appeals to me.

My doctor went on to say that she thought I had a condition called "Venous Hum." I didn’t really understand her description of it, except that it wasn’t a problem, and that the slang for this condition is "having a musical heart."

Surely there is a physical reason for this to occur in someone. I don’t know what it is, nor do I ever expect to know. My own fantastical explanation suits me just fine.

I believe that there really is music in my heart. The condition came from my extreme love for music. My emotional connection, my passion, my love has manifested itself in me physically.

Music has been a huge part of my like since I can remember. I started taking piano lessons from my mother when I was four years old; since then it has become a little bit more than a hobby. Though I am no longer a pianist – I dropped the piano in the third grade after I discovered the violin – I have always been involved in private lessons and ensembles, and I cannot even imagine what my life might be like without my music.

My devotion to music has gotten me through the toughest times in my life: in middle school, the most difficult time for a girl socially, as I struggled to fit in and follow trends, I was able to let go of everything at my choir and orchestra rehearsals, when I was surrounded by people who loved what we were doing as much as I did. As a junior in high school, the inevitable stress dissolved temporarily every Wednesday when I had my a cappella rehearsals.

Some of the most wonderful people I’ve met through a common love for music. For the past three summers, I’ve spent four weeks at New England Music Camp, and I still consider some of the musicians I befriended there to be my best friends. My violin teacher, who played a concerto for a youth orchestra I once was a member of, is one of the most remarkable people I know. She plays in the Boston Symphony Orchestra and has an unbelievable amount of faith in me as a person and as a musician. Not only has she become my mentor musically, but now, I think of her as a second mother.

People ask for signs from supernatural forces as affirmation that what they’re doing is the right thing. I know I have in the past. My Musical Heart was my sign.

Having a medical condition called a musical heart was God, or whatever force, telling me that those thirteen years were cultivating me to be the musician I am today. My “musical heart” told me that I must pursue this passion of mine. After all, how can a musical heart be truly satiated with any other profession?

Double-spaced, pt. 12 font, Times New Roman, it is only a page-and-a-half (whereas the other one was 11.5 font, 1.5 spaced, two-and-a-half pages).

Also, Ms. Ricker said it is brilliant. I wanted to know what you guys think, though.

Now I have a violin lesson.
Musically,
Allie.

Sat, 23 Sep 2006 17:03:07 GMT

So this is a little something I wrote the other night as a possible college application essay. I didn't realize until I typed it up how FREAKING LONG it is!

I scanned the list of altos, looking for my name. Not there. Of course not. This wasn’t the first time I had gotten my hopes up for something only to be let down. On the contrary, the coming year would prove to hold more disappointment than any other year of my life thus far.

But still, being used to rejection didn’t make taking this any easier. Getting into this a cappella group meant more to me than anything else at the time; my two best friends had been members since the start, and getting in would have been like a stamp of approval, inducting me into the "singer" subgroup of my group of friends.

They told me they were sure I’d get in. Now to console me, all of my friends said to me, "next year…there’s always next year." Yea...I thought...There’s always next year...

As my sophomore year drew on I longed more and more to be a part of this group. But at the same time I became more and more bitter and discouraged from auditioning again. "Next year" seemed like it would never happen. I knew I wouldn’t get in again. And even if I did, I didn’t know more of these people; I wouldn’t fit in. I shouldn’t even bother.

I remained convinced through the summer before junior year that I wasn’t going to audition. As I saw it, it was better not to know than to be let down again.

But when the school year began I was reminded of how jealous I was of my two best friends; I didn’t want them to have a whole part of their life that didn’t include me, but did include something I loved, singing.

And as they encouraged me to audition again, reminding me that I had been the very last person cut from the group the year before, I reconsidered.

The day of the audition I was all nerves. I hadn’t prepared a solo and had no idea what to sing. I decided on the first song that came to my head, "Closer to Fine," but the Indigo Girls. In certain situations in my life I have miraculously been able to calm my nerves enough that I don’t show how nervous I am; this was, fortunately, one of those times. I let my musical inclination do its work, and I knew that I had done my best.

And then came waiting. That night and the next morning I was the most anxious I have ever been in my life. As soon as I got to school I ran to check the list.

I had gotten in! There it was, my name, right there in with all of the other altos. I don’t remember anything about that day because I was so ecstatic and couldn’t focus on anything.

But my ecstasy only lasted until the inevitable stress of junior year kicked in early on in the fall. Looking at colleges, preparing for the SAT and subject tests, trying my absolute best in the most challenging classes I’ve ever taken all piled on top of my extracurriculars – theatre and violin/voice lessons for me – took its toll on me. When I wasn’t doing my homework or practicing I was trying to squeeze in a few hours of rest before then next hectic day began.

All of this traffic came to a halt on Wednesdays from 1:30 to 2:30. My rehearsals with Accent, the a cappella group, were the bright spots in my busy, grey days. These new friends that I might never have made otherwise, the music, the relaxed and comfortable vibe the group seemed to give off…all of this seemed to be just what I needed to get me through each week. I wished everyday were Wednesday.

Our first performance was at our school’s Dance Troupe show. We sang our two brand new songs, one of which I sang the solo for. This was my moment. This was my chance to prove myself and my voice. I took the microphone and realized that this was the first proper solo I’d ever sung in front of a proper audience.

My friends in the balconies cheered for me after my song. My blood was coursing through me at a million miles per hour. My heart was whirring and I couldn’t stop smiling. I’d never felt so wonderful in my life. My friends has been right when they had said, “Yea, but think of how happy you’ll be when you DO get in…” This really was for me.

Accent rehearsals and performances became my most anticipated events. The year rolled on and, much to my dismay, only got harder. The only time I felt I could relax and just forget about all of the work I’d be doing later on was each hour I spent with Accent on Wednesdays. I lacked motivation do to my work even though I knew I had to. A misunderstanding with my best friend of twelve years became the most drawn out, convoluted fight I’ve ever experienced. Every time we made up, a tremendous weight seemed to be lifted from my shoulders, and every time we fought again I thought I might lose her forever.

But through it all I had Accent. I had these ten other people who I knew wound listen to me if I needed them to. I knew so little about these people specifically out of the group, and one of them might know what was the right consolation for me. This group had become more than just my chorus; they had become my best friends.

After having been a member of Accent for not yet a year now, I have become President of the group. I look back at myself two years ago, too bitter to audition again; I look back at myself a year at this time; I can see how much I’ve changed. Accent got me through one of the toughest years of my life just by being something that I could count on, since I didn’t feel like I could count on anything else. Now it is in the process of teaching me administration skills and how to be a responsible leader. Accent without a doubt changed me, and will continue to, for the better.

We’re getting ready now to audition for new members next week. Just this afternoon I spoke to a junior girl who is really excited to audition for the group, and she was telling me how she really wants to be in the group. I keep on hoping to myself that she has a good audition because I know how happy she’ll be if she gets in. I know what she is facing as a junior. I know because I was in the same place a year ago. And I know how wonderful I’ll feel if Accent can change her life the same way it did mine.

So I changed a little bit of the actual events because they would have convoluted the story even more and made it longer...............................

But yea.
Tell me what you think.
Comments? Criticisms? What do you think I can omit?

Thanks in advance loves

Collegey,
Allie.

More fiction!

Thu, 27 Jul 2006 19:01:34 GMT

So I wrote some more fiction.
It kinda sucks. But the theme of the piece is what I was getting at.

I flick open a brand new notebook.
Clean white pages.
Perfect, unscathed by a harsh word or a memory that I can't seem to put from my mind.
Lines. Order.
Blank.

It's so foreign to me, a blank page. I'm uncomfortable looking at it and not writing anything.

The pen cap is on the back of the pen and I lower the point to the page.
Instead of writing, ink, words.
Nothing.
And then a tear. The perfect tear for the perfect page.

I try again but the only words bubbling out of my pen are ones I've read before, words I know I must have written sometime already.

---

I don't really know what to say. I think I have to ignore the problem because I can't fix it. We've both said everything we each have to say. There's nothing left to do.

A second tear, this one not as perfect as the first.

Perfect. I'm not perfect.

Notebook aside, I pick up a stained page. I spilled coffee on it yesterday morning.

I've stopped sleeping. Why should I sleep? I get into bed and then when everyone is asleep I tiptoe to the kitchen and brew myself a pot of coffee.

Pour. Sip. Sip. Pour. Sip. Sip. Every night. Each night the whole pot goes by a little slower.

Every night. This routine.

After the coffee I slip back into my room and read it over and over. Just like the note, except I wasn't meant to see the note. She wrote this for me.

Every night I pore over it all night trying to come up with something...anything at all, something to say.

I don't care. It doesn't need to be fixed. We can't fix it. They say not to push problems aside. But maybe that's the only response we can give. It's only a problem if we make it one.

It's only a problem if we make it one.

We made it one. Except, we don't really know what the problem is. Anymore.

Every night.

Pour. Sip. Sip. Pore.

Routine.

I hate this routine. Pouring, poring...I am not a caffiene addict, I am not someone who cries a lot.

I am healthy. I am stable. I am happy. I am loved. I love. I am smart. I am pretty. I am...

Trying.
Crying.

---
Hold your breath.

Jason appears in the doorway.

If you hold your breath no one can see you. I am invisible.

I pretend I can't see him from my peripheral.

Hold your breath. I can't see you, you can't see me.

"Everything okay?"

I am healthy I am stable I am happy I am loved I love I am smart I am pretty I am perfect.

"Yea. I'm fine." I can't sniff back my tears or blow my nose or he'll know I was crying.

Hands on my shoulders. "You sure? I could have sworn I heard you crying."

I fold the coffee stained page in thirds along its seams. Perfect seams. Perpendicular to the edges of the paper.

I look up and behind me.

Smile. I am happy.

"I'm fine. Really."

Pat on the shoulder. Kiss on the cheek.

"I hope so," and he leaves. Back to the kitchen.

I don't really like him. I don't dislike him. I just don't really LIKE him.

He likes me but only a little.

We don't really like each other.

It's summer. We don't have to like each other. Summer is all for pretending.

---

You can't pretend everything in the summer.

I am stable I am happy I am pretty I am perfect.

I can. Well, I can cover anything up.

I'm not pretending to be happy. I'm just covering up my background and my unhappiness until I'm alone.

At night.

Pouring. Sipping. Poring.

Pretending.

That's what summer is for. I don't have to be me, not in the summer. In the summer I am someone else in my body with my name. This summer, anyway.

To Jason, I have no past.

With Jason, I have no future.

Jason is the summer.

I don't even know him very well. I met him a few weeks ago by accident. The first week I talked to him on the phone every day and on Fridays, after work I drive up to his house on Cape Cod. I've spent the past three weekends here.

Jason is the summer.

---

The blank page, now warped by a few sparse tears, nearly glows against the coffee stanined page, meticulously type-written with not a single error, behind it. They are placed on a messy desk that taunts me, offers me some way to spend tonight.

Break the routine.

This is my future.

This is my life.

This blank page, dripping with tears of confusion, is my life.

This memory, this one last relic of something great that I wasted, is my life.

This routine of pouring and poring is my life with something different but equally as dreadful tempting me to break my routine. (*I have no idea what I meant by the second part of this sentence.....)

My life, a life of pretending nothing is wrong and pretending that I am someone entirely different. Because pretending starts with the summer but gets addictive. I won't be able to stop.

And I know what I have to do.

I quietly gather my things from my room and my toothbrush and shampoo from the adjoining bathroom. The door to Jason's room is propped slightly ajar; I push it open with my toe and tiptoe in so as not to wake him.

I kiss him on the forehead and am tempted to drop everything and stay, looking at his shaggy blond hair and perfect long eyelashes. He sleeps like an angel under these perfectly neat covers.

Perfect. Jason is perfect.

None of this is for me.

In my car I fumble through my purse for my keys and my cell phone.

I punch in ten digits.

Pouring, poring, running, dialing.

Is that my future?

It's ringing.

My clock says 2:32. That's AM, and fifteen minutes fast. She'll answer anyway. I'll leave a message if she's asleep.

Still ringing.

Caller ID...will she answer?

"Hello?"

Breathe in, out.

Here goes.

Okay so things I need to do: learn to write effectively using a tense other than the present and a person other than the first. Good luck me!

Anyway, obviously none of this is true. I never had a summer relationship with a guy named Jason. The idea compelling me to write this was true but in terms of things that are true in the piece it is entirely fictional.

The idea is mostly just about pretending to be someone you're not because you can. Having a clean slate, I guess. It was a little bit motivated by the fact that I was friends with a sort of sleazy Jason (you might call him a "Playa") at camp and I never really planned to reveal anything about my recent past [I think you probably know what I mean when I say that...] to him. (As we became closer I realized that he's not as sleazy as he seemed the first time I met him and he is just Jason which I suppose explains a lot if you know him.)

Honestly, I'm not fishing for compliments when I say it's not good at all. I wrote it because of what it meant and I posted it because what's the point in having a collection of writing if it's not a collection of all of it? And I felt I needed some closure.

So yea.
Missed you guys but I miss camp a ton. Ironically, I also miss Jason (and all of that crowd) a ton. And someone else specific...:P
Nostalgically,
Allie.

Most Recent

Thu, 22 Jun 2006 14:52:16 GMT

Okay. Here is what I do with my time when I should be studying and practicing and exercising and cleaning and anything else that is productive.

I think out of everything I've ever written I'm most proud of this. But I haven't written much.

Actually, that's a lie. I'm most proud of my canto for Dante's Inferno. I haven't posted that yet. I will, all in good time my friends.

Anyway. Here is Don't Stop Dancing. Enjoy.

Don’t Stop Dancing

I sit on front the steps of the concert hall; I can hear Vivaldi’s "Summer," from "The Four Seasons," coming faintly from the garden behind the building. Traditionally, we kick-start our summer season with a chamber music concert in the garden; we finish with the concert master or mistress performing "Summer" over the orchestra.

That’s where I should be. In the orchestra. I know how much trouble I’ll be in when Maestro finds out that I wasn’t there. I don’t have the time to formulate a decent excuse. Maybe he’ll kick me out of the group. I know that I’ll be bombarded with questions by the other players when I go back inside to put away my instrument. My parents will ask where I was, why wasn’t I in my normal seat, how come they couldn’t find me.

That’s no concern of mine now. It should be. I should be diligent and responsible and reliable. No, I should want to be diligent and responsible and reliable.

My concert whites are drenched with sweat and the seat of my skirt is still dirty. During the year, girls wear all black and boys wear suits, but in the summer girls wear all white because of the heat, and boys just wear white shirts and black pants.

I stand up to brush the dirt off my clothing and a mixture of head rush and the overwhelming 90 degree weather send me stumbling back to my seat on the steps. The stone of the building is nearly as hot as the atmosphere, but not quite. It still makes a refreshing seat.

I found the note two weeks ago, the day that school ended. She had written it the day before. I know because it’s dated June 13th. I think that she wrote it as if she was talking to me, but she didn’t expect me to find it. I pull the note out from my bra and unfold it carefully. It’s wrinkled and worn and on the verge of falling apart because of how many times a day I reread it. I have had it with me constantly ever since I found it, and when I don’t have pockets I tuck it into my bra.

"It’s not about me. It’s about you. It’s about you not being able to deal with your problems.
I just wanted to say to you, “It’s never too late. You’re doing the best you can.” But it was. It is too late.
I wonder if maybe tomorrow will be the last day I see you. I can see you drifting out of my life.
I have all of these ideas but I can’t tell you, not with a clear conscience, it’s because I’m still too mad at you. And you take things too hard on yourself.
I want to fix this but I don’t see anything changing.”

I reread the note a couple times every hour, and each time I have no reaction. It’s not that it doesn’t produce a great catharsis in me, because it does. I mean that I don’t know how to react. It stopped making me cry a few days ago, but I think that’s because I’ve run out of tears to cry.

It’s not any clearer today than it was two weeks ago how I’m supposed to respond to this. I can’t call her and talk to her about it, it just doesn’t work that way.

I had thought that we had cleared things up, but the next day I found the note and apparently I was wrong.

I fold the note back up and tuck it back into my bra, and try standing again. As I make a dash across the hot sea of jagged gravel to the grassy island between the entrance and the exit, I wish that I hadn’t already cast off my sandals. But it’s too late to turn back now, and as I ascend the branches of the maple tree I glance back at my shoes and my violin at the top of the steps, tucked safely behind an Ionic column.

We used to climb trees barefoot.

From my perch I can see down the road, and the turn-off that we used to take to get to the pond. We’d park the car and walk through the woods to the pond. Sometimes I brought my guitar and she brought her voice and we had picnics and I’d play and she’d dance on the sand and we’d both sing. Sometimes we raced across the lake. We reverted back to childhood and tried to catch the minnows with our bare hands.

"Summer" ends. Applause from the sparse audience of family and the few friends blackmailed by the players to come. The orchestra will be putting their instruments away soon. I want to duck out of here before they see me but I think I’m out of luck. Maybe they won’t see me up here in this tree.

I glance at my watch. It’s getting near time. I watch the cars as they pass, waiting.

When we were eleven, the bridge in the woods behind her house was our favourite place to spend our days. Every day that summer we walked the path from her house to the bridge, collecting sticks along the day. We dropped the sticks off of the upstream side of the bridge and then quickly darted to the other side to bid our sticks farewell on their downstream journeys. We loved this game, knowing that we were sending our sticks on a journey whose events couldn’t be foretold.

I hear a familiar noise and hold my breath: her car can be heard from a mile away. It’s so old and battered that it’s probably not even safe for her to drive it. But year after year it passes its annual inspection and she loves it so much that she’ll probably keep driving it until it actually falls apart.

The sound is getting closer, she must be coming over the hill. I pull my legs close to me and hug them. I want to be invisible. My concert whites must stand out against the healthy green of the maple leaves but I still hope.

The ancient Mercedes “Miss Daisy” sputters over the hill.

Don’t breathe, if you breathe you’ll give away your position.

I look in the driver’s window as “Miss Daisy” approaches the concert hall. Her dad is driving, but she’s in the passenger seat. My eyes are fixed on the car and I forget that I’m holding my breath when the Mercedes pulls around to the left instead of the right. To get to the highway, which is the only way to the airport, you turn right. To the left is the parking lot of the concert hall.

I unlace my arms from my legs and climb down the tree. I can’t see past the hall and I probably would have fallen anyway.

With the setting of the sun the gravel cooled down but it’s still as jagged and painful as it was before. I prance back up to the steps to retrieve my sandals but can’t run. I’ve run out of energy.

My shoes on and my violin and bow in hand, I take the path around the left side of the concert hall back to the garden where the concert was and now the reception. I peer through the cast iron gate, hoping that still no one can see me. Now is not a good time for attention.

I scan the crowd (if it’s big enough to call it that). There’s Maestro, talking to the soloist’s parents. He’s absently looking around and it’s clear he doesn’t care about what his companions have to say. He hasn’t seen me yet, though. And with a little luck, he won’t until we start rehearsing our new repertoire next week.

I shift my gaze over past the garden to the parking lot. She’s getting out of the car, and as usual she’s hard to miss. Her natural red, the envy of so many people I know, stands out in any crowd.

She makes her way through the players and their parents, past Maestro and his captors, and I know where she is headed. She stops in front of a couple, still sitting in the folding chairs that we use for an audience. A grey haired woman, my mother, looks up from her lap, where her distressed hands are folded. I’m close enough that I can almost make out their voices.

"Good evening, Evelyn," my father says as he stands and shakes her hand.

"Hello, Bill," she replies, "Jane," she adds to my mother. She’s talking to them but she’s dropped her voice down so that I can’t hear anymore.

My mother looks around as she replies, and my father shakes his head. I can just barely hear him saying, "No, we haven’t seen her. Very unlike her, very unexpected indeed."

She glances at her watch and I hear her say, "Well, I had hoped to find her here so I could say goodbye. But I can’t stay long anyway. I don’t want to miss my flight."

My mother hugs her, and my father shakes her hand again. She turns to go but as she’s walking back to the parking lot I can see her skim the crowd one final time. Her eyes pass over me but she slows down her gait and starts to turn back, towards the iron gate. I hold my breath and she hesitates, turns back to the parking lot. I exhale.

I detach my clenched fist from its grasp around the poles on the gate and turn back to the front of the building. Back around the front I climb up to the top of the stone steps. They’ve cooled down significantly and now instead of too hot, they’re almost uncomfortably cold.

I hear "Miss Daisy" coming round from the parking lot, about to make the journey over the highway and through the city to the terminal. My eyes follow the car past the Catholic Church across the street and down the winding road. I watch as the license plate, "ATIV 89," gets smaller and smaller and slowly fades from my sight. I sit with elbows resting on my knees, my chin cupped in my hands. Breathe in...breathe out...it’s all I can hear. The crickets, too. They’re out by now and their songs are almost calming. Almost.

***

It’s past dark now and I’ve been lying in the field for a few hours. Or something. Too long. I’ve lost track of time.

I hid behind the Catholic Church until I was sure that the concert hall was completely empty. The only car left in the parking lot, other than mine, was the dark green Camry which was the custodian’s car. I put away my violin and bow and put my case in the back of my car.

Nine missed calls on my cell phone. Two from my mother, two from my father, three from Carrie, the assistant principle first violin and two from the first cello, Ben. I didn’t return any of the calls. I knew what they were about.

After that I came out here, to the playground right over the hill from the hall and lay down. I must have fallen asleep because when I woke up it was completely dark out.

I’ve been just lying here since I woke up. I’m trying not to think about anything, but I can’t keep from pulling the note out of my bra and rereading it. I can barely see, but I know it by heart anyway.

It’s not about me, it’s about you.
...you not being able to deal with your problems...
It is too late.
...drifting out of my life...
I want to fix this...
...but I don’t see anything changing.

I’m about to cry when I can hear my privacy being interrupted.

I prop myself up on my elbows and look around. Their space illuminated by the lights from the playground, two girls, maybe my age, probably a little younger, tell each other jokes and laugh as their swings move back and forth in unison.

"Married," that’s what we used to call it in elementary school when that happened.

As they swing higher and higher their swings break from their similar rhythms. They each jump off and as they land on the ground their skirts fly up. They fall over and break into hysterical laughter.

"You’re it!" the one with the longer darker hair tags her best friend and sprints across the bark mulch to the grassy field, where I am.

Her friend’s short blonde ponytail bounces as she chases her.

"Tag" was always a short lived game and the dark haired girl starts to sing.
Today is gonna be the day that they’re gonna throw it back to you...

Her voice has a raw, undeveloped beauty to it and she does justice to one of the most well-known songs from our generation.

She and her friend dance to the singing with more energy than I can fathom.

I want to get up and dance with these girls. If I could gather the energy, I’d collect myself and I would get up and dance and sing with them.

They keep dancing through several repetitions of the song, and by the second time the blonde girl has joined in on harmony. Her voice isn’t much to speak of, but it’s not bad.

After the third time through, they’ve danced themselves off their feet and they let out screams of ecstasy as they collapse and burst out laughing again.

***

I was never much of a dancer. Music was always my territory. Evie was the only person who could get me to dance. We danced until we couldn’t anymore and then we danced some more.

A movie that we watched years ago ended by explaining how the only way we could stay alive, the only way we could stay on the earth, was to dance. "Don’t stop dancing," the main character said, "You’ll fall off!"

***

I get up to make my way back to my car.

The girls left long ago, without noticing me at all. I wanted to call out to them as they left that nothing lasts forever. I wanted to tell them so many of my experiences. I wanted to tell them how much they reminded me of me.

There’ll be hell to pay if I go back home.
Breathe in...Breathe out. Breathe in...Breathe out. I can still hear the crickets.

Reason I'm so proud of it is because it's my first real fiction/creative piece, disregarding the thousands of documents on my old harddrive from 5th grade/younger. (I wrote a lot as a kid. Everything inspired a story to me. I've long since lost that knack.)

Anyway, most of it isn't fiction anyway. It's just set in a fictitious place. A dream world, if I may. Not the situation, though...the YEAR ROUND YOUTH ORCHESTRA?? An orchestra that is GOOD?? Okay yes I am dreaming. And of course some parts are obviously ripped off from NEMC. All white concert dress fo' example. Playing outside, fo' example. Sitting on steps, fo' example (I'm on stage crew so I don't have to sit in the audience and listen...Livi and I usually sit on the steps out back of the Bowl).

Feedback? ya??? Kthxbai.

Fictitiously,
Allie.

Just another tasty treat from the gang at w. civ english!!!

Wed, 14 Jun 2006 23:16:27 GMT

It's been forever since I've updated. I've been trying to write something new, something inspirational, something fantastic but...........................................there's nothing there.

I have, however, got a few tasty treats for you still, and I'll try not to post them all at once because I literally only have a few left.

Anyway, I wrote this for Western Civ English as a modern version of Sophocles' Electra.

And if you know me, which you do, you can imagine the basis that I used for this. It's called "Electra on Wisteria Lane" (very inventive, I thought so too).

Electra on Wisteria Lane
Characters
Susan Mayer, the Vandekamps’ neighbor (“Old Man”)

Danielle Vandekamp (“Electra”)

Andrew Vandekamp (“Orestes”)

Bree Vandekamp (“Clytemnestra”)

Mary Alice Young (“Dioscuri”)

Stage is set as the inside of Susan’s living room. Stage right, there is a small couch, and to the left of that, an end table with a telephone, an empty plate, and a lamp on it. There is wooden dining table in the center of the stage with three chairs around it, and upstage behind the table is a cupboard with a drawer, presumably for silverware, and shelves with plates on them. There are two coffee mugs on the counter of the cupboard.
It is morning and Susan is sitting on the couch, talking on the telephone.

Scene 1
Susan: It’s a long story, really. What? You’ve got time? Well, (reluctantly) I guess I do, too.

I’ve known the Vandekamps since I moved to Wisteria Lane. I was good friends with Bree even before she and her husband began having marital problems.[She chuckles.]

A few years ago, Bree got a phone call that Rex had been submitted to the hospital after suffering a heart attack. When she found out who had called 911, she was more concerned about what Rex was doing when he had the attack than that he wasn’t well. Apparently, Rex had been at the home of Maisie Gibbons, the “neighborhood whore.” Her children actually went to school with Bree’s children, Andrew and Danielle, which is how Bree knew Maisie.

Bree and Rex had been separated for a little while when Rex went into the hospital, but when he came home from the hospital, Bree agreed to take care of him until he was well enough to move out again.

Unfortunately for Rex, during the time they were separated and while he was in the hospital, Bree, um...found someone else. [pause] Yea, him! George Williams, the pharmacist.

The night Rex came home, Bree prepared and nice dinner for him, her kids and George. It was a salad, I guess, or something. With onions in it.

Turns out Rex is deathly allergic to onions. (Sarcastically) Who knew! Apparently, Bree did. And so did her kids, which is how they knew, when Rex died in the hospital a few days later, that their mother and George had planned to kill Rex.

Well, George was upset that Bree’s children knew that he and Bree had killed Rex. So he and Bree turned Andrew into the police for having put an elderly woman into a coma while he had been driving drunk a month or so before.

He sent Danielle away to boarding school in New York, which seemed a fool proof way to keep her away until she flunked out of school and thumbed her way home. Obviously, though, she didn’t want to stay with her mother and George, so she asked to stay with me.

Of course I took her in. She’s my neighbor and my ex-best friend’s daughter. She’s been living with me since, helping me out around the house, and she has a job a in the next town. Rex and Bree don’t know she’s here though. It’s difficult for Danielle to be so near to her mother and not be able to do anything, not to be able to talk to her or anything.

Yes, I know! It’s very complicated and traumatic for Danielle and Andrew.

Oh, you have to go? I hope you’re not late, I told you it was long.

It was nice talking to you!

Scene 2
[She hangs up the phone. Danielle comes in, carrying two empty plates. She sees the plate on the end table, places it on top of the two she is carrying and takes them over to the sink to wash them.]

Susan: Thanks for getting that!

Danielle: Oh, it’s really no problem! Besides, I owe it to you.

[The doorbell rings – Exit Susan – and Danielle goes to answer it. Enter Andrew, standing in the "doorway,” stage left. Danielle doesn’t recognize him.]

Danielle: (a little apprehensive) Can I help you?

Andrew: Are you Danielle Vandekamp?

Danielle: I am. And you are...?

Andrew: All in due time. I have news of your brother, Andrew.

Danielle: (forgetting all apprehensions) Andrew! Oh, how is he? Is he still in prison? Is he alright? Where is he? Please come in, have a seat. Coffee?

[Andrew crosses the stage and sits on the couch, and Danielle brings the two coffee mugs over.]

Andrew: Yes, please.

[Danielle hands Andrew a mug and sits beside him on the couch, looking at him eagerly.]

Danielle: ...so?

Andrew: Ah, right. Andrew. Andrew is...doing...as well as one can do in his situation.

Danielle: Is he out of prison?

Andrew: You could say that. You could say that he was granted parole.

Danielle: (confused) Where is he? What is he doing?

[Enter Susan, standing behind the couch.]

Susan: He’s sitting on my couch, talking to you.

Danielle: (looking up at Susan) What are you—

Susan: Look at him! It’s your brother! Couldn’t you recognize him?

Danielle: Andrew??

Susan: I practically raised you kids, don’t you think I’d know your brother when I see him?

[Danielle and Andrew hug.]

Danielle: How did you get out of prison? What are you doing? How did you know I was here?

Andrew: None of that matters now. Do you know why I was so intent on finding you, other than, of course, that I haven’t seen you for a few years?

Danielle: No, but I have a pretty good idea...

Andrew: Our mother killed our father. (Danielle nods maliciously) We have to do something! I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it ever since we figured it out! We have to avenge Rex’s death.

Danielle: Yes, we...we must! I’ll get Bree. I’ve got a good idea.

Andrew: Great! I’ll deal with George. He shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll come back once I’ve taken care of him and tell you what I did.

Scene 3
[Exit Andrew stage left. Susan sits on the couch next to Danielle. They both look impatient.]

Danielle: Where is Andrew? He’s been gone too long. I’m afraid that something went wrong!

Susan: He’ll probably be back soon...I hope.

[Enter Andrew stage left. Danielle jumps up to greet him.]

Danielle: Andrew! You’re back! How did it go? How’d ya do it? Tell me EVERYTHING.

Andrew: (breathes in deeply, and then out) Okay. I’ll tell you.

I went to George’s pharmacy dressed as an employee of the store. I pretended to be moving some products around on the shelf near George’s station when he asked me if I could help him with something. Obviously, I had to have a nametag – “John,” mine said, a good generic name.

So “John” and George went into the back medicine closet to bring out some prescription drugs in bulk. But George never made it out of the room.

As soon as we went into the room, I took out my Swiss Army Knife – those always come in handy. George turned to me to ask me to reach some boxes that were up high but instead of getting the boxes, I turned to him and stabbed him in stomach.

I said to him, “It’s me, Andrew Vandekamp. You killed my father. Now I’ve killed you.”

Then I stabbed him again, this time in the heart. When I was sure he was dead, I left and came back to you.

Danielle: Excellent! Wonderful. Now you just wait upstairs. I’ve already called mother and invited her here so that she and I can have dinner and talk, for the first time in years. Then, I’ll kill her.

Andrew: Oh...yes...

Danielle: Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts…

Andrew: Well, no, it’s just that...she’s our mother! She raised us as best she could and gave us a home and a childhood.

Danielle: And killed our father! Dad would be upset if we didn’t kill her!

[Andrew is about to respond, when the doorbell rings.]

Danielle: That’s her. Get yourself upstairs, now!

[Andrew and Susan exit stage right.]

Scene 4
[Danielle answers the door and ushers in Bree.]

Danielle: (stiffly) Good evening, mother.

[Bree goes to hug Danielle, and Danielle refuses.]

Bree: Danielle! My love. It has been so long! How are you doing?

Danielle: Fine, even though you basically ruined my life so many years ago.

Bree: What? I ruined your life?

Your father, Rex Vandekamp, practically ruined mine, and our marriage, when he cheated on me with that vile Maisie Gibbons! I couldn’t give him what he wanted, but he refused to find out in the first place.

I was so distressed that he didn’t love me, so I had to find someone new who would love me, even the way I am. George was able to give me that love. Rex wasn’t. Rex never loved me the way George loved me. George doted on me and told me he’d never leave me.

Women are fools for love, and, when smitten with it, will do brash things. Rex broke my heart, nearly killing me. The only thing I could think to do that would get to him like he got to me was to kill him. So I did.

Danielle: That’s ridiculous. You’re trying to justify your killing Dad. It won’t work. Andrew!
[Enter Andrew stage right, with a gun in hand.]

Danielle: Now we avenge our father. Andrew, do the honours!

Andrew: (reluctantly, and aiming that gun) I’m sorry, mom.

Danielle: Don’t say you’re sorry, just shoot her. Shoot her!

[Andrew shoots Bree who, before her death, has had a dumbstruck expression on her face. She collapses on the ground.]

Andrew: Oh my God... (he covers his mouth with his hand) I just killed my own mother. What kind of monster am I?

[Exeunt Andrew and Danielle stage right, and enter Mary Alice Young stage left.]

Mary Alice: Andrew Vandekamp was found guilty of premeditated first degree murder of his mother, Bree Vandekamp; he was sentenced to twenty-five years to life in prison.

Andrew convinced Danielle to flee Wisteria Lane, and she married his friend, Mike Delfino. They live in Chicago, but Danielle lives in shame that Andrew had to suffer the consequences of her decisions. She has never returned to Wisteria Lane since.

The above is proof that I should never, EVER write dialogue. There is, in fact, a good reason that I don't.

Uninspiredly,
Allie.

The Pants

Tue, 28 Mar 2006 23:11:10 GMT

Remember those fantastic green cargo pants I bought last year on Fish's birthday? Remember how I never wear them anymore? Remember how that's kinda sad? Well, they shrank. This is a piece I wrote last spring after they shrank. It's okay. Not my best work, but whatever.

aren't my titles original? haha.

The Pants

I am a selfish, materialistic, hording bitch.

I’ve always joked around about being materialistic. I know that I consider money to be close to the top of my list of priorities, and I love shopping. But I never really thought I actually based my life on material needs. Until now.

Back in February, WetSeal was in the process of closing, and they had a huge sale. Since I love a bargain and cheap things, I had to check it out.

When I got there, there wasn’t much left. Most of the clothing left was the stuff that would have been on clearance anyway. You might see something you liked, but you’d try it on and it would have a weird fit, or it would be made of a cheap material, or it would have a really horrible design on the back.

But there were these pants.

I found them on a rack with several other pairs. They were, or they are, green, and were shaped like cargos (only minus the pockets that cargos usually have). They had gold coloured buttons and grommets. I tried on a pair of 11s, and while the length was perfect, they were too big around the waist.

The 9s were better, although I wouldn’t have minded if they were a little bit longer. But they were $15, so I bought them. What the hell, right?

They were amazing. Truly amazing. They went fantastically with my purple Chuck Taylors, or with flip-flops, or with modest heels. I had bought a striped orange shirt from the Gap from clearance for $6 that day as well, and the pants matched that so well. You could wear a studded belt with them, or no belt, or a nice belt. They went with every colour; every colour of clothes that I owned, that is. I reveled in my success.

However, I was afraid, because of the length of the Pants and the length of my legs, to wash them. But I decided that if I washed them in the machine with the rest of my laundry, and then I’d take them out before putting everything in the dryer and hang them up so that they could air dry. This worked because I do my own laundry.

Then yesterday, I was organizing my closet. I found tons of laundry that may or may not have been clean; I wasn’t going to risk it. I had an entire load of laundry just from my closet.

I had worn the Pants the week before, as well, and felt they ought to be washed. As I was dumping my clothing into the washing machine, I held the pants and thought, "I have to remember to take these out and let them air dry."

Unfortunately, I never even got around to transferring the load.

All yesterday afternoon, I waited for the laundry already in the drying to be done. Our dryer takes approximately a lifetime and a half to finish its cycle, whereas the washer takes about a half hour.

I had to go out. I had a rehearsal with a few musicians from my church because we are playing in the service this coming Sunday. The clothes in the dryer weren’t done, so neither were mine. I had been wearing PJ pants all afternoon because my jeans were in the wash, so I had to revive a pair of pants I hadn’t worn in a while.

I completely forgot about my laundry until this morning. I woke up and realized, since I had put all of my pants in the load the day before, that I had no jeans. I went downstairs and checked the dryer. My clothes weren’t in there. They were in a basket in the dining room, which is where we put clean laundry.

I took the basket up to my room but neglected to put the clothes away. My theory is that I don’t need to put my clean laundry away until I need a new basket for dirty laundry. I didn’t put them away until about a half hour ago.

I had put a few shirts away already when I found the Pants in the basket.

Oh. SHIT. I forgot to take the Pants out and hang them up last night!

I tried them on.

FUCK.

No longer were they the Pants. No longer were they perfect. They were just a pair of pants that just barely fit me. Pants that, if I kept them, I’d probably never wear again. A scrap of fabric.

And now I’m crying. Just thinking about how perfect the Pants were, how amazing. Thinking about how, because of my own carelessness, I had ruined them, I destroyed them; now, they’re just pants. Just any old pants.

I think maybe I’ll make them into shorts.

That is, if I can bring myself to cut into them.

I miss the Pants. I actually still have them, because I'm still to sentimentally attached to them to let anyone else have them. Plus, I do want to make shorts or a skirt out of them....but actually, I just want them to be wonderful pants again. While I'm dreaming, I'd like a million bucks, and a pony. And a boyfriend.

Sentimentally,
Allie.

PS-I'm not actually feeling predatory. I just wanted to put an interesting mood icon up.

Sun, 26 Mar 2006 23:19:59 GMT

This was one of my thought-gathering sessions after Laramie Cast Party. I am disabling comments because I know there are things that I left out. Like how blatantly horrible I was to someone I love. And...you know, things I don't remember. So, enjoy, I guess, but don't be too harsh in your judgments of me because I know........well, I know that I'm no saint. Far from it, pretty much. But anyway, here it is. You can't comment. And don't comment about this on other entries, please. That's defeating the purpose.

What happened last night?
I don’t remember.
Oh yes you do.
No, I don’t think I do.
Okay…
Okay what?
Nothing. Do you remember anything? Like, early in the evening?
Well, we were sitting in the basement and Alex brought down the beer.
Mmhmm…
And so I took one.
Do you remember what kind of beer it was?
It was…well, it…no. No, I don’t.
Oh dear.
What?
That can’t be good.
Why?
Well, if you can’t even remember what beer you had…nevermind. Do you remember how many beers you drank?
Um…three? Well, I had two-and-a-half, in about…twenty-five minutes. I didn’t finish the third one, because they wouldn’t let me.
Who is “they”?
My friends.
Why wouldn’t they let you?
Um…I guess they thought I was too drunk…
Do you remember having drunk anything else?
Well, Gabe had a strawberry daiquiri. I had some of that…
And?
And I think someone else had a bottle of red wine, too. I had some of that…
Was there pot?
Yea.
Did you smoke any?
No…but…
But what?
Other people did.
Smoked?
Yea.
Who?
I dunno. Why does it matter?
I’m just trying to refresh your memory. You’ll be a lot better off if you can remember what happened. I want you to remember.
I think I was looking at Rachel’s belt and it was green on one side and black on the other.
What else?
Rachel puked.
Did you?
I don’t think so. I felt like it when I got home, but I didn’t. I don’t think.
Okay, what else can you remember?
Ry had a drink that was…that was…oh gosh, I don’t know, but it was like a ton of vodka and not much else. I didn’t try it because I think vodka is nasty.
Who else was there?
I don’t know. People.
What people?
I remember…I remember that there was a kid there who hadn’t been in the cast and I said to him, “You weren’t in the play! You can’t be here!” And he said, “It’s okay, I’m leaving. I think.
Did he leave?
I don’t remember. I think I saw him again, outside of the house, but I’m not sure how much later that was.
Well did you talk to anyone?
Well of course I did.
Who?
Um…well…Rachel of course. Maggie…and…Ry…Lee…Leah…she was really smashed.
Was she really?
Yea. I think she called her boyfriend and left him a message.
Okay…did you do anything other than drink?
I…I think we played a card game…
Who is “we”?
Um…me, Mike, Sybil, Margo…I think Maggie played, and…yea…Annalies. She was playing. She had the wine.
Okay. Where were you?
I was in the basement for a long time…
But you weren’t there the whole time?
No. I went upstairs, to go to the bathroom I think. Leela gave me some popcorn and pretzels but I got full after eating just a few.
What happened upstairs? Who did you talk to?
Oh, you know…just people.
Oh come on. You can do better than that.
I talked…I talked to…Oh no.
What? What’s “oh no”?
I don’t think I should keep talking about this.
Oh, NOW you’re remembering! Well! I think you need to tell me what you remembered.
I…I can’t.
Oh yes you can.
No, I shouldn’t.
Yes. You should.
Okay, well…I talked…I told these three guys that they were hot, I think.
Who?
I don’t want to say.
Okay, that’s fine. What else do you remember about them?
One of them was playing a xylophone. I don’t know why. I guess it’s just because it was there and I said…I asked him if he was high, and he said he didn’t know, that he guessed so. And then I told him…I told him that I thought he was hot and…and I don’t remember what else.
Are you sure you don’t remember?
Yea…I think…oh yea, I think I also told him I was drunk so he couldn’t take anything I said seriously.
Is that all?
And I guess…I think I…Oh my GOD. I think I told him I’d fuck him.
Did he say anything to you?
I don’t think so. He gave me this look but I walked away. I don’t even know him, really.
Wow.
Yea.
Well, do you think you learned something from this?
Yea…
And?
Haha…that I should only drink with small groups of close friends or large groups of people I’ll never see again.

Laramily,
Allie.

Superlatives

Sun, 12 Mar 2006 20:33:07 GMT

I think, with some tweaking, this could be a decent piece of personal writing. Unfortunately for you, I'm too lazy to tweak it. So live with it. PS-it sucks right now. Here is
Superlatives

If there is one thing I hate, it is superlatives. You know, “Best Looking,” “Most Popular,” “Geekiest,” “Drama Queen,” things like that. The ones that you get at school at the end of the year, or the end of school. And here is why I hate them: because I never got one.

Okay, that’s a lie. In seventh grade, we were given sheets at the end of the year to fill out who on the team fit each superlative. They were things like, “Most Likely to Succeed,” “Future President,” “Best Dressed,” “Best Hair,” “Best Smile”…those are a few I remember. Anyway, there were about ninety or ninety-five superlatives, and approximately that many kids between whom we could vote. You could fill in one name for at most two superlatives, and you weren’t required to use everyone once.

I severely doubt that any person beyond my group of geeky, wanna-be popular “friends” (who were just like me) voted for me for anything. Hell I doubt even my friends voted for me. There was nothing on the list that had anything to do with me, except maybe “Most Musical.” But then, compared to what I was up against for “Most Musical,” (basically Isaac Stern at age twelve, and Asian) I had no hope.

The last day of school came and, well, nobody ever does anything on the last day of school. The last thing to happen before we all went our separate ways for the summer was the handing-out of superlatives.

My friends and I actually missed most of them because we were being spoken to by a counselor about being “racist” and allegedly calling someone a “bitch” and spreading rumors about her.

We came out from the counselor’s lair and sat down quietly in the back of the crowded room to listen in vain to the remaining awards. I remember one boy I had a crush on getting, “Best Smile,” and another girl receiving “Most Inquisitive.” I remember Blake Staley, a boy from my bus, being awarded with “Best Looking,” but that’s about where I stopped paying attention, knowing I wouldn’t get an award.

“The next award is Team Humanitarian. For girls, the award goes to…Bridget Doyle!” Quiet applause came from the back of the room where my friends and I sat, congratulating our humble friend on her award. As seventh graders, none of us actually knew what exactly a humanitarian was, but it must have been good if there was an award for it, and if Bridget had won it.

A few minutes later…“Team Historian…Allie McLellan.” Applause from my group of six friends. That’s all. I got up from the back and made my way, stepping around millions of blond, tanorexic girls who seemed to glisten from the light hitting their glitter-soaked faces like the Best Looking Best Dressed and Most Inquisitive angels they were at the time.

I didn’t, and still don’t, know why Bridget and I were awarded with Team Humanitarian and Team Historian. Neither of us walked around spouting sentiments such as, “Save the Whales! Join Greenpeace! Meat is Murder!” and I certainly had the very lowest grade in history that I could have had without subjecting myself to a hanging by my parents (I had a constant B-). But Bridget’s and my theory was and still is this: the teachers had a few awards left over that no one voted for, and a few people left over that hadn’t been assigned to a specific award. They drew names from a hat to assign a name to an award, so that every award would be taken and every person would have an award and no one would feel unloved. What shit.

Anyway, superlatives…I’ve never gotten one for real. In eighth grade, we got to vote for the whole grade. The awards were basically the same things: “Best Dressed,” “Best Hair,” “Best Laugh,” and then since there were 350 kids in a grade they had to tack on a few more such as, “Most Likely to Become a Rock Star,” or “Most Likely to Live Abroad,” so that the crowd of elite Aber-Zombies wouldn’t be the only ones to win. Other examples include, “Class Attorney,” “Most Talkative,” “Most Outgoing,” “Biggest Flirt,” and “Most Likely to Go to Harvard.”

The awards were to be given out at the end-of-the-year 8th grade Banquet. That wasn’t the reason I was going. I was going because at that time I still idolized the yellow-haired Abercrombie & Fitch-wearing Britney Spears look-alikes, and if I ever wanted to be them I could not be absent at the defining event in middle school. Also, my anti-social friends were going, so I figured I would grace them by being there. They had other things they would way rather be doing than wasting twelve bucks plus on some shitty middle school dance and their less-than-stylish semi-formal dresses.

I remember getting ready after my violin lesson (ironic coincidence that preceding something cool I did something incredibly geeky? I think not), fixing my layered hair in the typical straight-but-flipped-out-at-the-bottom-creating-a-really-cool-effect style. I donned my strapless bra and pink flowery halter mini-dress and 2-inch red wooden sandals (giving me height that I really did not need). I still have the shoes; they’re cute, but not me.

With my purse in hand, I got in my mom’s mini-van to make the seven-minute drive to the prison…I mean middle school. My purse was cute. I had gotten it for sixteen dollars at TJ MAXX that winter; it was denim with a combination leather-magnet clasp that resembled a G. I felt cool because it could have stood for Guess? or it could have stood for Gucci. Guess which one it did stand for (no pun intended)? Anyway, inside my purse was my cell phone with the cutesy eighth-grade smiley-face faceplate, my wallet, and feminine hygiene supplies. I had meant to bring my disposable camera but, you know how it is.

This isn’t meant to be about the dance, though. It’s supposed to be about the superlatives. So I’m going to skip the part of the dance where, for the meal, my geeky friends and I couldn’t find anywhere to sit until our more popular friend Anna saw us and invited us to sit with her. I’m going to skip the part where I almost backhanded my Sprite into the lap of my crush’s date “by accident.” I’m going to skip the part where I told everyone I felt like shit just to have an excuse to go home, but really I was just bored with the whole charade. I’m going to skip the part where, when walking out through the lobby, I passed Bridget and her clique doing helium since they hate conformist dances and would way rather do “drugs” than get superlatives.

Anyway, the superlative awarding was basically the same as in seventh grade, except there were more blonde girls who took this dance as seriously as Prom and had their hair done up in elaborate curly ‘dos who won every award. Even those for which they were far from qualified.

My friend Scott won “Most Likely to Become a Rock Star,” and Tom, my crush, didn’t win “Biggest Flirt” (I voted for him for it). None of my nerdy musical friends won anything, and neither did I. The only one I thought I might win was “Most Likely to Live Abroad,” and I only thought that because I had lived abroad. But inside I knew it was going to go to the most perfect of the curly haired blond Abercrombie goddesses at the school. I liked her, I did. She was a good person. But too perfect.

After the superlatives, I went home. I had wanted to stay for the superlatives just incase I won anything, but I realized when I got home that I should have just said “Fuck it” and not gone to the dance at all. I had zero fun and after telling people that I didn’t feel good, I started thinking that I didn’t feel good, and Anna even told me that I didn’t look so hot. At least I hadn’t wasted my own money.

One reason why I will never get a superlative is that I am not the most of anything. I am not Most Popular, nor am I Biggest Geek. I’m not Most Musical, or Drama Queen, or Most Artistic. I am adequately smart, but not smart enough to get Most Likely to go to Harvard. I’m not an idiot and thus wouldn’t have gotten (if there had been such an award) Least Likely to Get Into MBCC (Mass Bay Community College). I have shit fashion sense and thus will never get Best Dressed but will also never get Biggest Hobo. I have a stupid voice, laugh, and smile so that automatically rules out those three. The last time I participated in an organized sport was in first grade, when I played soccer for one season. No Most Athletic for me. I’m not notorious for anything. I don’t really have a reputation. I would win Biggest Nobody; it’s too bad they don’t make degrading superlatives. I am not a superlative. I am not the most at anything.

The only superlative I would ever win is Best at Being Allie McLellan. But after thinking about it, I don’t think that I even do my name justice. I’m not so good at even being me. I just realized today that I am not outstanding at basically anything. I’m just mediocre. Lately, I’ve been scowling at the way I’ve run my own life so I doubt I would win the BaBAM award.

Super lame. I wrote it back in the day before I learned to write well. Suck it.

Lamely,
Allie.

Sun, 05 Mar 2006 20:47:02 GMT

This is an old one. I wrote it long before I was in Memoirs last year, thinking that I might use it in the class. I never did because I ended up telling the story during the Question of the Day in class ("Tell us a story about a scar you have or describe a near death experience you've had"). So here it is. It doesn't have a title. Want to come up with one?

You always hear people describing experiences when they thought they were going to die saying their life “flashed before their eyes,” and “everything was in slow motion.”

You never believe it, though, when people tell it to you. How could someone see their whole life in a matter of seconds? How can things just...slow down? It’s not entirely convincing to just hear someone describe it, and near death experiences are phenomena that simply can’t be explained.

---

I went to my first rock concert exactly a week after I turned fourteen during freshman year. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a rock concert, because it was Good Charlotte. But, at the time, I was trying to find myself somewhere that was clearly not the right place; the “pop-punk groupie” scene.

“Bridget, there’s a Good Charlotte concert in October,” I said, “We should go!”

Bridget and I were both very into Good Charlotte. We had and knew all the words to both of Good Charlotte’s full-lengths; I regret to admit that we were also able to tolerate every song on both of those albums.

So when October 10th finally arrived, we were psyched.

My dad picked us up after school that Friday afternoon; it was nice outside, and we weren’t even wearing sweatshirts. We listened to Nirvana (a “nice” complement to pop-punk) all the way to Amherst; the concert was at UMass Amherst.

The whole concert was an exhilarating blur. Everyone remembers certain aspects of their first rock concert. I remember how tightly the pit was packed. I remember thinking how exciting it was, because in a conversation with my dad and brother a few months earlier, I had said, “Oh, I’d never go into a mosh pit. They’re dangerous, and you could get hurt.” I felt so hardcore now, and rebellious.

I remember losing Bridget multiple times in the pit. I remember thinking, “This is so much fun; I wish I could die right now so I’d die happy.” I remember actually thinking that the pit was so intense and dangerous that I really could have died.

I also remember my overwhelming desire to crowdsurf. I probably wanted to do it because I felt hardcore, and probably not because I thought it would be fun. During one of last songs of the show, I remember wanting to ask the guys around me to help me up, but I was too shy.

---

I didn’t go to my second rock concert until six months later. At this point, I had given up the pop-punk deal and probably hadn’t listened, truly listened, to Good Charlotte since the concert.

Plans for the Yellowcard and Something Corporate concert were last minute, because I found out about it less than a week before it happened, and I was in Florida visiting my grandmother at the time.

After lots of phone calls, with my phone going in and out of service, I was finally able to scrounge up a few of my best friends who shared my interest in the two bands.

There were only two days of school after Spring Break before the concert, but it felt like forever.

On Tuesday, April 27th, we were all counting down the hours until we left for the concert, how many classes left until the concert. We zoned out during class, thinking about how awesome the concert would be.

My dad picked us all up from school, with food.

We ate and sang songs and speculated all the way from Sudbury to Worcester, and then from the parking garage to the Palladium, and then, once inside, waiting for the concert to start.

Finally, the opening band played.

Again, a lot of the evening was a blur. We spent most of the first two sets trying to find a good spot to stand. We ended up, somehow, somewhere that we weren’t supposed to be, beyond a barricade that had clearly been there to keep out annoying kids like us. It was right next to the lighting and sound board. The view was perfect from there.

I remember the other people who were in the barricaded area with us. We all watched the crowdsurfers, mostly blond girls wearing flip-flops and trucker hats, and counting how many surfers were dropped. They dropped a lot of people that night.

“Wouldn’t it suck to be dropped? That must hurt.”

Pretty soon after we occupied our spot, a security guard found us there: “Who let you in here?”

Ashamed and afraid we were going to be kicked out of the concert, we got up off our asses and hurried back over the barricade, desperately trying to find another convenient place in the theatre.

One memory sticks out in my mind of the night, though.

After being evicted from our spot next to the light board, and failing miserably to find another good spot, we unanimously decided to brave the floor.

The area used for a mosh pit at the Palladium is not enormous. So, if you want to fit a million teens and young adults in there, it’s a squeeze.

There’s a sign above the pit there that says, “Due to the violent nature of these activities, moshing, crowdsurfing, fighting, etc. are highly discouraged.” If you hadn’t seen the sign, you’d think that the psyched teens hadn’t been warned.

Having found myself in a mosh pit again, I began toying with the idea of crowdsurfing.

My friends had the idea, too, before me. Watching Bridget bounce over the crowd so swiftly made me want to do it even more.

“How was it?” we bombarded her with questions as soon as she rejoined us. None of us had ever surfed before.

“My ring fell off,” she replied.

I had to be the next to go. I just had to. Soon I was five and a half feet up in the air and being tossed from person to person over the crowd.

---

It’s going so well…why didn’t I try this sooner? Did someone just grab my ass?
And then...
This isn’t right.
Why don’t I see the ceiling anymore?
Is that concrete?
Don’t let go. Oh, thanks..
Why me?
Isn’t this ironic?
Okay now I’m really falling.
It’s only a matter of...well...not even a second left until I hit.
It’s getting closer.
Concrete...this is really going to hurt.
That is, if it doesn’t kill me.
Ow. Shit.
My elbow.
My back.
My HEAD.
PAAAAAAAAAAIN. Owowowowow.
Am I bleeding? It feels like I am.
Well, at least I’m not dead…

---

I can’t imagine what it must have been like for my friends to watch me go down. All I can remember of the fall, and the seconds, what felt like at least thirty seconds, prior to it are a few choppy thoughts.

After I fell, people sort of cleared out near me, but the clearing quickly closed and a girl fell down and was sitting on me.

This SUCKS! I’m lying down on the floor of a mosh pit and a fat girl is sitting on my head. I’m going to suffocate.

“Get the fuck off of me!”

Again, if you think you’re going to die, you think faster, or everything slows down. I was probably only down for two, three seconds, but I remember my thoughts could have filled five, six, ten seconds.

Finally the girl regained her balance and was able to liberate me, and a cute blond boy whose shirt was unbuttoned, one of the people who had helped me up in the first place, extended his hand to me, and asked me if I was okay.

I said I thought so, and I made my way back to my friends.

Rachel didn’t learn from my mistake; less than five minutes after my fall, we were all watching her fall to her knees on the pit floor, and then she’s back up because she’s been lifted up again.

---

Ten minutes later, Bridget looked at me and held up her ring: “Look what I found on the floor.”

Um...it doesn't really have a point, other than to tell the story. And the ending was lame. It could use some major tweakage. But other than that I guess it's okay? Non scio.

Tweakagely,
Allie.

PS-this is the third piece I've posted today. You better freaking read them ALL and post comments too.

Sun, 05 Mar 2006 20:32:47 GMT

I turned this piece in for my final exam in Memoirs. YES FINALLY DONE WITH THE MEMOIR STUFF. Ish. Written in the third person so technically it's not Memoir? But I got an A on the exam so I'm assuming it was okay.

The Last Night

Twenty-seven girls sit on a tennis court on a July night in Maine. The darkness of the night envelopes them as they struggle to say their goodbyes. They shouldn’t be saying goodbye now, not until tomorrow morning; but one girl, for some unspoken reason, has to leave tonight. No one knows why. Even her parents don’t know why. They just know that she’s leaving and she won’t say why.

The girl wonders why everyone is suddenly so tearful at her leaving. It’s almost as if no one liked her until she had to leave.

Well, she didn’t have to leave. She chose to leave. But she didn’t tell anyone that.

If she’d known that people would be this upset over her, maybe she would have stayed the one extra night. She wouldn’t have to make up some lame excuse for leaving early, when in fact she was really just running from herself and her decisions.

She wishes she’d spent more time with some of these people, instead of holing herself up in her room, crying for herself and writing letters home.

Kat gets up from her spot across the circle and walks over to the girl. “Don’t leave,” she says. “You’ll forget me, I know it.”

The girl is surprised at this accusation.

“Kat,” she says, “no one could ever forget you. You are one of the most eccentric and outgoing people I’ve ever met.” She wonders, also, why Kat was never this friendly before she had to leave. Kat is crying hysterically, though, and won’t stop telling the girl never to forget her.

Sarah’s cronies had left early as well, which meant she wasn’t too cool for anyone now. She automatically latches onto the girl, hugging her and telling her that she’ll miss her so much. They figure out that they live near to each other, and Sarah tells the girl to call her. The girl makes empty promises, knowing that she never will make the call.

Then there are the ones whom the girl was friends with at the beginning, but could never really tell if they liked her. She hadn’t wanted to impose a friendship on them if they didn’t like her, so she avoided them. She realizes now, as they, too, hug her and tell her that they’ll miss her, that maybe they did like her and that she was just wrong.

The few with whom she spent the past few days, the week, are the ones she knows she’ll keep in touch with and the ones whose goodbyes are the most sincere. Lexi and the girl are so different, and yet so similar, and the girl thinks, as she and Lexi embrace for the last time, maybe forever, that this friendship is too precious to waste.

The bright blue backlight from the girl’s cell phone pierces the darkness, and her tacky ringtone puts an end to all of the crying. Her father, waiting in the car for her, is getting impatient and it’s getting late. He wants to get home because he still has to work tomorrow.

She makes the silent journey from the tennis court to the parking lot, past the lake, past the cabins, past the lodge, past the auditorium, leaving this all behind. She told them she probably wouldn’t be coming back, and she had actually believed it herself. But now, as she thinks about it and about those twenty-six other girls who must have really liked her, and whom she realizes she could have grown to like had she spent more time with them, she wonders how she could ever leave this place behind forever.

So that's that one. I'll post another in a minute.

Finally,
Allie.

Last Piece from Memoirs

Sun, 05 Mar 2006 20:12:54 GMT

This is the last of my pieces from Memoirs. Well, the last piece I turned in for the class, there's always the one I wrote for the final exam. Anyway, I'm trying to get all of my old stuff in quickly (of which there is a ton more) so that I can start posting my more recent writing (of which there is not so much. I've only sat down and written a few times since Memoirs but I think I'm going to post some of the creative stuff I've done for W. Civ, some of which I'm very proud).

The Consequences

"I cannot go to school tomorrow," I think, "How can I face this? How can I face what I've brought upon myself?"

Rachel just told me what I said the other night, when I was drunk. Drunk. It's still weird to think that I was actually drunk. The first real party I've been to, it was really only a cast party, and I got drunk. I feel so grown up. Not mature, though. I feel like an irresponsible adult.

But what I said drunk is not something I'd ever like to think about, and so I try as hard as I can not to. Instead, I think to myself, How could I have let that happy? How could I have let myself get that smashed? What didn't I just avoid Him? Now everyone in the Drama Department probably thinks of me as "That Girl Who Said That Stuff." Well, this explains why He walked away from me so quickly this morning in the hall.

I need to figure out a way to skip school tomorrow. This month's Rolling Stone comes in the mail, and at ten o'clock, my approximate bedtime, I'm reading a fascinating article on Motley Crue. I figure if I keep reading the magazine instead of sleeping, I will be or at least look tired enough tomorrow morning to convince my mom to let me sleep instead of going to school.

My plan works, and even though I don't think I'm tired, I end up sleeing four extra hours. I don't remember my dream when I awake, but I'm sure He was in it. He's all I've been thinking about since I spoke to Rachel.

Andrew wakes me up at eleven; he's home on a full lunch. I go back to school with him and his friends at twelve-thirty, and I'm going in through the entrance in the bottom of the A-B connector when I see Him. He's blocking my path to class. Stopping in North House to avoid him, I check in with the secretary and get a pass to class. He's gone by the time I come out. Thank God.

My class during lunch on Wednesday is cancelled, and Rachel and I go outside to play guitar and since. She's performing in the Acoustic Coffeehouse, and asked me to sing with her on one song because we'd like to think that our voices go quite nicely together. I'm reluctant; I'm not sure if I want to draw attention to myself, especially after everything I supposedly said. But I decide to sing. It's not like He'll be there anyway, probably.

Wrong. I've been at Cafe Decadence for maybe two minutes and I see Him. Shit. And given how talented He is musically, He'll probably perform. And everyone will love Him because they all do anyway.

Rachel and I go outside to practice our song, because I think I might have forgotten the harmonies I'm singing. I've only just learned the song today, after all.

Bridget, who has no connection to the Drama Department other than me, arrives while we're outside. I mention something about His being there to Rachel, and Bridget doesn't ask what I'm talking about. Oh now, she knows, too. Does everyone know? Yes, probably.

The song goes well. Really well, actually. I think I've been received well, and as far as I know, no one whispered, "That's that Girl. She said that stuff. She's weird." I'm sure that's what He was thinking, but I'm not going to let myself get hung up over it.

He plays with His various groups. In most of them, He plays a different instrument. He basically plays every instrument that exists. Just more reason for me to want Him (and reason to feel mediocre around Him). Probably also part of why I said what I said.

The evening ends, and despite that He was there, I feel really great. I don't feel like shooting myself anymore. Regret is fleeting for me, and it's usually music that makes me feel better.

Thursday morning, I'm walking to class, past one of the stairwells. He comes stumbling up the stairs in that amazingly colourful shirt that isn't reason for me to want Him any less.

He sees me, and smiles. "Good job last night," He says, to my surprise.

"Uh," I grunt, "Thank you." After we part, I wish I had told Him that He did well too.

But that doesn't matter because He just spoke to me. And all this time, I thought He thought I was weird! Relieved, I sigh. Thank God that's over.

Consequently, I wrote many pieces about this. Well, three I guess. I don't know. Whatever.
Anyway, shall we continue wading through my collection of old writing? I'm very excited to post my newer stuff because I wrote a piece last night of which I'm quite proud and I know at least one person who supposedly reads this journal will understand exactly where I'm coming from.

Consequently,
Allie.

Fri, 03 Mar 2006 21:43:22 GMT

I don't know what compelled me to write this. I wrote it about a year-and-a-half after the fact thus you'd think that I wouldn't remember and be able to conjure up out of the blue all of the feelings that I felt. But I reread the piece and it's surprisingly close to exactly how I felt that night. Maybe I have diary entries or whatever about it from the time. I don't know. But here is...

Scissors

The scissors lay on the floor near the chair, inviting themselves to sit in my palm. My frip on them was firm, yet not firm enough that I would kill them, were they a small animal.

The sweat from my stressed hand was warm and sat on the orange plastic grip of the scissors. I sat at my desk, in front of the blank computer screen, just holding the scissors, not knowing what to do with them. Not knowing what I wanted to do with them.

The cool metal tool, weapon, calmed my tingling hands. A few minutes prior, I had been writing on my computer, my fingers hitting the keys faster than I had ever known myself to type. The words, incoherent and jumbled, had made sense, at the time, to my frantic fingertips. I had to turn the computer off because this sudden jolt of...I-don't-know-what had frightened me. Just make it stop. Please.

And now I had these horrid things in my hands, this combination of metal and plastic, which I wanted nothing more than to just put down. But...I couldn't. The scissors sat in my hands and the tingling came back to my poor, defenseless fingers. they longed so much to--to what? What had been my intention when I took these scissors in my hands? I guess I hadn't thought of that.

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God. The words ran though my head like a broken record. I'm not religious. I wasn't talking to God. I was just saying those words, meaningless to me; it was as if I was only saying them because I could.

Those words, "Oh God, please make it stop. Oh God, please make it stop," played over and over, ringing in my ears. I sat at my desk, still, with these scissors in my hand, until I could stand it no longer.

It took all the will power I could muster. I raised my hand, the one in which I was holding the scissors, and let the scissors fly from my grip into the abysmal mess that was - is my bedroom.

As soon as the pointed end of the scissors hit the wall, I was back. No more crazy ramblings took up memory on my hard driver. No more ambiguities about what I really had in mind for those scissors troubled my already bleak, grey mind. All images and pictures of scissors stopped dancing through my head. The words ringing in my ears ceased, along with the tingling that tortured my fingers. All that was left was the dent in the plaster of my closet wall to haunt me, to remind me of that night.

That sensation, thrilling even despite the fear of confusion, is not something I have felt since that night last January. And all I know is that I have never felt so afraid in my entire life.

Um....I don't mean to be....thingy, but after reading that again, I realized that I had forgotten that I was a good writer. Everything I've been posting is okay, mediocre. Everything I've written lately is alright. But this...this was real material and I am so unbelievably in awe that I, as a fifteen year old, wrote that. But I guess anyone could.

Modestly (COUGH),
Allie.

Another untitled

Fri, 03 Mar 2006 01:26:01 GMT

This was the sixth paper I passed in to memoirs. It's not great, but it begins to describe why I hate my stupid mother.

We didn't used to be like this. We got along fine, and I never revealed anything about myself or me life. I just did what she told me to do and pretended like I wasn't a selfish backstabbing bitch who ruins everyone's lives.

We're not like that anymore.

I guess it's better now because I'm being honest. This is probably what happsn to you if you live in yourself for so long. You have so much pent up anger and so much emotion that to make up for lost time, it all comes out at once instead of little by little, in a healthy way. Then again, it's better than pretending.

Every little conversation lately, every "hello" (or lack thereof on my part, which is usually part of the problem), every discussion of anything evolves from a pleasant conversation into my shouting at her, telling her something new about her that I hate with tears of self-loathing landing on my cheeks.

At first, it usually makes me feel a lot better.

I'm rejuvenated and relieved; it's off my chest. They're usually things that have been bothering me for a lifetime...literally.

And I feel like I've won (not that that was my intent, but it's always good when you win).

Until she says it.

"Maybe the only way to solve the problem is for me to just die, to not exist anymore."

She might have been suicidal, once. Because it's how she trives to solve things, to win. All the time.

Like this one time, I came home from camp, but instead of going home, we had to go to New York for her father's funeral. We were all stuck inside this room, well, this suite in some hotel. I hadn't been ready to go to bed at the same time as everyone else, so I sat on the floor of the bathroom, writing and losing myself in my CD player.

And so I head them fighting about something, some mundane, unimportant, everyday thing.

And then I realized that that's all I'd heard that day. Fighting. My brother and sister fighting in the car, my parents fighting about something, and my sister bing the snotty little back-talking first-grader that she is.

So I came out of the bathroom and I said to them, "Can't you just stop fighting for once? I come back from camp, which is bad enough in itself, and all I hear, all day, is fighting! It's like you never stop!"

"Yea," she said, "I guess you're right. And you know what? It's all my fault!" (It was, but that's beside the point.) "I should just leave. I'll just walk out of this damn suite and you'll all be fine and happy without me. Just-- I'll just go!"

And then I felt guilty, because if she really did leave (which I didn't doubt she would), everyone would blame me. "Look what you did. I hope you're happy now." When it wasn't my fault in the first place, I just don't want a broken family.

So I began to apologize like hell. Like, you know, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean it, it's my fault" type shit. I felt so helpless, like they control me. Which they do.

But I can't take it anymore. Today I snapped.

It was typical. I was telling her again how much I hate that she guilt trips me into everything. Often, she has a point. I'll give her that. But the way she does things is obnoxious as hell! She'll be like, "Well, maybe we should rethink taking violin lessons from a professional who is in the BOSTON SYMPHONY ORCHESTRA" and shit. And then I'll feel like a selfish bitch.

And she did the, "How do I back off?......I guess the only way to back off, the only way for my to stop doing that, especially because I'm not aware that I do it, is to die, to just not exist."

It's not like this is a new thing, so I decided to tell her why she sucks.

"I HATE WHEN YOU DO THAT! You're guilting me again!"

Blank stare.

"You always do that! You say, 'Maybe I should just die! Maybe I suck!' and then I feel guilty, but I shouldn't because some things aren't, in fact, my fault."

I told her about the time after camp.

"I'm sorry," she said, not to mention with no real emotion in her voice (sometimes I wonder if she is capable of emotion), "I really am. I truly am sorry."

There wasn't anything to say, so I didn't say anything.

It's a bit more casual than I would have liked, but Ms. Notaro said that "as for the writing, excellent job. This flows. Change nothing." I disagree, but in any case, she liked it and I got an A for the course.

Disagreeably,
Allie.

PS- Post comments? Critique my work? Please? Kthxbye.

Ralph

Wed, 01 Mar 2006 20:14:35 GMT

While my sister is practicing, I thought I'd bide the time by giving you another addition to my growing collection of writing. Erm. Kay, here's...

Ralph

"Ralph," I began, "You're the best, and I love you so much."

I was lying in my bed. It must have been 10 o'clock, maybe 10:30. Ralph was sitting next to me on the bed. My room was dark; the only light came through the door that was always propped slightly ajar.

"Ralph," I said again, "I don't think you know how much I love you. And I'm going to miss you so much."

It was the end of August, 1998. I was almost nine, and about to enter the fourth grade. Earlier in the year, my dad had brought home the news that we'd been given the chance to spend a year in Tokyo, Japan. I hated the idea, and wanted nothing to do with Japan, but as much as I protested, I knew that we were, in fact, going, and I should probably start saying goodbyes.

"I hope you'll miss me as much as I know I'm going to miss you," I said softly to Ralph, "but a year's not that long."

This was my last night in Sudbury.

"And, of course, we'll be home for Christmas."

I had no idea at the time how exhausting the thirteen hour flights to and from Narita Airport in Japan would be.

"I just wish you could come with us."

As I wondered if Ralph heard me, if he understood me, my eyes began to well up, and soon the salty taste of tears met my tongue.

I remembered, aloud but quietly, to my patient companion times that I had discovered him lying in the sun on the floor of my parents' bedroom and joining him, jealous that he had found the spot before I. I remembered him before the anxiety kicked in and he started eating rubber bands and Christmas tree tinsel. I thanked him for all the times he had endured Andrew's and my childish ways of dressing him up and playing house with him. And I apologized for all those times when, if something smelled like fart, we all automatically accused him, because none of us wanted to take the blame.

Sometime during my speech, Ralph had shifted positions so now he was lying down in my bed, beside me. I knew he had fallen asleep, but I kept talking. I fell asleep crying, and repeating to Ralph how much I loved him, even if he was an oddball, and how much I was going to miss him.

The next morning we left in a limousine for Logan Airport.

At the ripe old age of twelve years old, Ralph died soon after we movie. I never saw my cat again.

This is unfortunately one of my favourite pieces that I turned in to Memoirs. I don't know why "unfortunately." Whatever.

Unfortunately,
Allie.