Sharpies and 8th Grade

I snap the cap off my pen and, as quick as I can, snap it back. My focus is maintaining an even rhythm, so I ignore my English teacher as he tells us his life story, something about Princeton and accounting and finding his dream in teacher.

My pencil bag is lying within my desk, the pen tips just peeking out. I tilt my head, my nose making a soft “hm” sound, in realization and rebellion. It’s time for a change.

You’re so uptight, you know that right?

God, you never have fun.

Why are you such a goody two-shoes?

I look up at my teacher to make sure he doesn’t see me, and then around the class. Most people are staring into space and fidgeting, while the rest are either texting each other. No one’s actually paying attention.

I read what everyone else had written inside my desk. It’s an old desk, with one leg just a bit shorter than the others, and a crack running along the surface. Scissors have scratched the surface, crayons colored random squares and triangles, and pens writing the typical messages: “Hi!” or “I’m bored.”

Not daring to breathe, I pull out my Sharpie, and quickly brush three lines together to form the letter “K.” I look around the class to see if anyone’s staring at me, but no one is. I date it “May ’10” and cap the Sharpie again. My writing is simple and boring, the letters fitting in with the dozens of other initials and dates. But still I giggle to myself.

If I could be anything in the world, I would totally be a hacker

My mother: (pointing at the wall) You need to get some new blue tack. This is really dry and old.
My grandpa: You mean like me?

Pyrosis

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Six Word Memoirs

Lost: religion. If found, please return.

Waiting for something big to happen.

Just another girl with low self esteem.

One…more…day…

Ahead, she could see a car’s blinding headlights slowly moving toward her. She held her hand up in front of her eyes to shield them from the piercing shine. It made a stop as it went by her. The windows rolled down, and she could see the driver was a middle-aged man, with a graying free-grown beard, and wearing a tattered baseball cap. She stepped backwards. There were always stories of things like this happening, usually young girls walking out alone at night. It was true she was out too, but it wasn’t much farther to her house. And she assured herself that this was a safe neighborhood, in the rural backroads that barely anyone passed through. The crime level was nearly nonexistent, she thought. Nothing bad ever happens here. Even so, her arm was trembling in fear.

“Hey, little girl. Are you lost? Do you need a ride or anything?” He sounded genuinely concerned, but she couldn’t trust anyone. Not at this hour.

“No, no, I’m fine. Almost home.”

“Oh, okay,” he said. “Get home safe.”

“Thanks,” she whispered. She watched the car drive away, until the taillights disappeared around the corner. 

Everyone had already gone to bed, and none of the houses had lights in them. But it wasn’t the dark that scared her- even as a child she had never needed a night light- but rather the absence of noise.

She was almost home, only a few minutes away. She broke into a run, the sound of her breathing occupying her ears.

There was a feeling she couldn’t shake off, though. That someone else was on the road with her. She stopped running and stood very still, listening for any movement. Suddenly she heard a rustling noise. What was that? She held her breath. It stopped. Oh, she thought. Just a gust of wind in the trees. In the daytime it would have seemed innocent, but now it was like it wanted to come after her.

She shook her head, giggling. Nothing bad ever happens here, she repeated to herself.

She returned back to a walk until she could see her house ahead. She pulled her key out from her jean pocket, running her fingers over the distinct edges as she prepared an argument for why she missed curfew.

A hand reached from behind and covered her mouth. She tried to scream, but a glove muted them. It didn’t matter. No one would be able to hear her at this hour anyway. 

Description

Standing in the Montana mountains, it is obvious who belongs and who doesn’t. The rolling breeze seems to melt him into the land, the free growing grass, and the wildflowers. You remain a protruding outsider.

He wears colors like olive and cream and red flannel, and has scuffed hiking boots and light-wash jeans. His old black hat is encircled by a chain of clean white daisies he just collected that morning. From the edges you see hints of hair, though when he takes it off, the top of his head is shiny and smooth.

When he speaks, his voice is low and scratchy, and it reminds you of old pianos.

Almost going on seventy, the only hint of his age is his unkempt beard, which has turned white at the tips. His wrinkles aren’t defined yet, but rather his skin is soft, like sheets several years old. What you want to tell him is how he reminds you of a tree: stable, tall, and ageless. He already smells of old wood and dirt and lavender.

Things I Love

1. Sleeping. Obviously.

2. Warm chocolate chip cookies that are really soft and gooy and the chocolate slightly melted and the dough very moist.

3. Watching television late at night when no one else is up.

4. Correcting commas.

5. Hearing “You’re right.”

6. Coming to school in something that is comfortable.

7. Solving a sudoku puzzle.

8. Listening to a song on repeat.

9. Having time to sit down and read a book.

10. Not having homework for a weekend.

11. Having nothing to worry about

12. Laughing so hard tears come out of my eyes and my stomach hurts so much

It’s 7:40 a.m. The bus comes at 8. I stay in bed and stare up at the ceiling. There’s a pencil mark on it, from two years ago when we first moved into the house. I haven’t erased it yet.

It’s 7:43 a.m. The bus actually comes at 8:02, I reason, so I still have time. The covers are so warm, so safe. There’s no such guarantee at school.

It’s 7:47 a.m. There are way too many secrets to go to school today. Yesterday I slipped you one under the table, and I promise myself I won’t do it again. I wouldn’t be able to handle seeing that look on your face again, watching your eyes move away from me, your mouth that doesn’t move, the only sound of you shifting in your seat.

fuckyeahvintageillustration:

Beautiful antique children’s fairytale illustration by Ida Rentoul Outhwaite, circa 1916 - featuring some of my favourite things.  Bats, cats and a witch.

From the book ‘Elves & Fairies’ by Australian illustrator Ida Rentoul Outhwaite. 1st edition, Lothian, 1916.

(Source: little-miss-atomic)

Effects of Sleep Deprivation on the Teenager

“How was your weekend?” you’re saying.

Please stop. Your voice is scratching my eardrums.

“I don’t know,” I’m replying.

I’m so fucking tired of talking right now. My jaw aches from being forced to move it all the time.

“What do you think, K? Am I really being a bitch?” 

I can’t even follow your words anymore.

My blinks are taking longer than they should, pulling together like the north and south poles of a magnet. I’m a fool to try and keep them open. My eyes jump from your right shoulder to your left, then fall on the ground to be buried by layers of dirt.

Childhood Traumas

1. My best friend in the first grade once told me that murderers lived in the forest. She said that the neon pink ribbons around trees were how they marked their place, so they could come back and kill me if I was out alone at night.

2. When I was in preschool, I went over to my guy friend’s house for a play date. He insisted on showing me something, and I watched as he pulled down his pants and peed on the tree.

3. I was walking home from the bus stop when I saw a turtle crossing the road. I thought about lifting it up and carrying it across before a car came, but my fingers were too scared to touch it. Crack. I thought about taking it out of the street before another car ran over its mutilated body. But instead I ran home and cried, still hearing the crack repeat in my head.