So, I submitted to the school creative writing magazing, Kaleidoscope. Yeah. Three poems and a short story. So. Here they are:
Dark Blue
The second shadow
tiptoeing behind, far quieter
Than the echoing steps I take between two streetlights
6 paces.
A lake, trying to compose itself
after the lingering rain
stirred cold darkness from the depths.
A fisherman returns,
hoping his luck has changed
with the color of the waves.
Elusive cat’s-eyes in my neighbor’s yard, deciding
whether the hand-that-does-not-feed
is worthy of her attention.
I press my forehead against the passenger side window
and stare at the road,
Gazing so intently, a gaze becomes a doze.
I muse to the blurred highway, that every 60 seconds,
I am one mile closer to something,
and one farther away.
Trying to relax, eyes shut tight,
waiting for sleep to come,
but the 2 AM train opens them
screaming as softly as possible,
as if it cares not to wake me.
I pay the fare on a bus to a movie
all my friends have seen.
I look up and find I am alone, although
every seat is filled.
The quiet humming song you sing
after you’ve pulled the covers completely
over your head
and pretend you are camping.
In your fortress, the lightning
is the headlights of a speeding car, the thunder
keeps time to the tune you are fabricating,
and the monsters under the bed
are merely sick of playing solitaire.
Graveyard Walk
Walking home through the cemetery
over carefully mown grass
there is no sign of what lies beneath
but I step cautiously over
each grave, just in case.
The sun is gold and soft in the grass,
I hear my breath fade into my surroundings.
Mid-evening traffic fails to make any sound.
Do they stop at the light,
waiting for a green sign from above,
and hear their breath become
slower, in the silence?
An old man and woman
step out of their car.
The door shuts, cracking the clear sky
with its hollow sound.
Their bouquet is doomed to wilt
on a modest headstone. A friend? A child?
I don’t know what to do as I pass by.
I know nothing of death and loss,
outliving someone I love,
so I stare at my feet,
trying to look at least respectful.
I do not see their faces again.
My steps echo
between each blade of grass
My shadow
pushes the afternoon closer to evening.
The Watcher
I am a watcher
the one walking by
Reading a book on a bench
one eye following the strings of words,
The other carefully watching the world,
The autumn geese
Two small children bickering.
I am not the one
pondering loss at the funeral,
Wondering what we leave behind
when its time to go.
I am across the street
drinking a half-cold latte
Thinking about the cars in the funeral home parking lot,
they look like shiny black beetles,
Dressed for the somber occasion.
I am not the one
driving down the highway,
Looking for somewhere to go,
Wondering if the next turn is the turn,
the one that will make all the difference.
I am in the car that just passed you.
the girl looking out the window
Watching
many faces in the many cars
racing by.
Short Story- Queen to Her Color
Richard Durand stepped along the banks of the Seine, feeling very old. He pulled his coat closer to him with withered hands. He had been very handsome once, but that was years ago, before the wars, before everything. Now he was silver-haired but still strong, walking tall. Only the sturdy wooden cane gave away his weakness. The morning was dark with thick low clouds and the river was drab slate gray, agitated, and moving like the next breeze would become a full-on storm.
The fog in his mind cleared for a moment and Richard remembered. There had been lights, he recalled, and music. A real band, not a radio and the officers had been lively, the war was over and the celebration had begun. He remembered her red dress, the one with white flowers, and her pearl necklace, a gift from her father. But not her face, never her face. The memory of that summer evening so many years ago faded. He looked at the damp sidewalk and sighed. His face, old and reserved, didn’t fall, just relaxed. His footsteps set up an even rhythm with his cane, two soft taps and a sharper accent. He thought of the riddle of the sphinx.
“On three legs in the evening, walks the old man. Trop tôt vient le soir#. ” he murmured, and tried to think of home.
He knew home was far away, but how far, he had no idea. She was gone from that place and it had no memories left for him to search out. In fact, he couldn’t remember the address or when he had left. Richard focused, trying to remember. Nothing came to him. He stopped to gaze at the river. A pigeon flapped raucously in front of him from the eaves beneath one of the Seine’s 32 bridges. Richard barely flinched, if at all. He remembered a black door, with the paint long since worn off the handle.
A patisserie was opening its doors and the warm buttery scent of baking croissants drifted over the cobblestones. He turned and smiled, beginning to take a step before he remembered another day. This memory was sunny and dusted with gold. A spring morning and the river sparkled vividly, sending a shimmering pattern of light across the shore.
That day, he had set up a cheap folding table near the riverbank with two chairs that looked as if they had been brought out from a kitchen, simple and wooden. It must have been a memory from very long ago. He had been sitting in a chair across from a boy. The boy’s face was blurred and distant, but cleared up after a moment. Michel. The boy was Michel. Richard was setting up a chessboard, taking the pieces out of the blue felt bag and setting them upright, putting them in place without even looking. It was a practiced motion, the queen on her color and the knights on the second square from both the left and the right.
Michel must have been 11 or 12, and he was trying very hard to look careless, but the impression he gave was fidgety. His hair was combed neatly but it looked like he had tried to make it messier. He was staring grumpily off to one side, his body turned so he was slouched in his chair with one leg off to the side and stretched out and the other facing forward, bent at the knee. His jacket was left unbuttoned.
“Now, Michel, my father taught me how to play chess and I think its time I taught you.” He continued to set up the board, the pawns in a neat orderly line before the court.
The boy shifted to a more obvious sulk. Richard noticed and smiled. He put the last piece, a black knight, onto the board in front of Michel. It teetered, then fell, clattering on its side. The boy glanced at it then looked away. Richard picked it up and returned it to its place, then leaned back and adjusted his deep red suspenders.
“A real gentleman knows how to play chess.”
Michel rolled his eyes.
“I know, Papa. You only tell me all the time.” Richard gave him one of those stern fatherly looks he so rarely used. Michel groaned with another roll of his eyes and made a face.
Suddenly there she was. She was wearing a pink dress and the same pearls and she was beautifully lit by the sun. She placed a hand on Michel’s shoulder, and leaned over to speak, looking them both in the eye. She always wore the silver bracelet Richard had given her for their engagement and the simple gold band that she would wear every day for forty years. She had been buried with them, and the pearls.
“Now, Michel my love, listen to your father, won’t you?” She smiled sweetly. “Only gentlemen get croissants for breakfast!”
The paper bag she held out was steaming. Michel sat up straight and ran his fingers through his hair. She laughed brightly.
“I can’t beat him you know!” Michel protested, after making sure he had eaten at least one croissant. “There’s no point in trying. Only boring old men play chess anyways.”
She stood up and put one hand on her hip.
“Are you calling your father a boring old man? If he’s old then you must be at least 35! And besides, you‘re a fast learner and he‘s a good teacher. Silly, a jeune chasseur, il faut vieux chien.#” She smiled and turned to walk back to the house. Richard remembered the way she wore heels even in the early morning, but she could walk quietly in them nevertheless. He tried not to think about her, it hurt to think he couldn’t remember her eyes or her middle name. She had slipped away.
A shout pushed Richard out of his reverie. There was a gang of dirty children jumping and yelling around the door of the patisserie, a hundred yards away. From the mass of rowdy delinquents (by their look) a single boy escaped, and ran with a lopsided side-to-side gait that bespoke his life on the streets. He dashed across the empty road and towards the river and Richard.
He glanced back just as the baker broke free of the mob to shake his fist.
“Dirty little thief! Stop! Hey, you! Stop that! Stop the boy!” The man was yelling, his thin face red with anger, although there was something a bit comical about the smear of flour under his left eye.
Richard turned to watch the scene, wondering if the baker had been talking to him. He didn’t have time to think twice before the boy was there. Somehow, his cane was in the way of the boy’s legs and the thief was airborne.
Not for long. He came crashing down after an elegant but momentary flight with a thud and a string of profanities. The baker was shaking a few leftover children off his apron and shuffling towards them.
Richard looked at the boy sprawled by his feet. There was something about him that was very familiar. Was it his hat? Or maybe his old hand knitted gloves with all the fingers missing. Perhaps it was the stubborn confused look on his face, but he looked like someone familiar. Michel. He looked like Michel.
The baker had finally caught up to them.
“Thank you, Monsieur, for catching the little imp.” He addressed Richard politely, before turning on the boy. “Thought you could get away with stealing breakfast, didn’t you!” The boy just glared fiercely, and put a hand on his knee to stand up.
Before he could dash away Richard had him by the back of the collar. The boy looked up in surprise and indignation.
“If you wouldn’t mind Monsieur, please let me apologize for my grandson. Children are so impatient these days and I do admit, your fine croissants had the same idea running through my mind.” Richard smiled sagely. “Let’s not make a scene, alright? Of course.” He handed the baker some money, the coins softly clanking as they exchanged hands. The baker looked behind himself and sniffed.
“Well. Good day then, monsieur.” And he walked back to the open doors of his bakery.
Richard turned to the boy, who was struggling weakly, instead focusing his energy on watching Richard. Richard smiled and handed the boy the small wooden box he had been carrying in his pocket.
“Carry this for me, would you? It would do an old man a bit of good. Now, what’s your name?” He began walking along, using his cane for support. He was tired. The boy looked confused, but walked along side him just the same.
“Why should I tell you?” He said, putting on a tough face that was out of place on his young features. Richard didn’t even look at him. The boy pouted, not used to being ignored, and nothing seemed to faze the old man.
“Where are we going?” He demanded rudely, forgetting that he was a new addition to the party. Richard just smiled, and angled towards a few tables and chairs sitting in a grassy place where the sidewalk deviated from its normal path, leaving an open space. The boy followed him without a thought.
Richard watched as the boy walked just ahead of him and picked up a small stone. He lightly tossed the pebble into the current. It splashed, and Richard watched the ripples remembering another child who had tossed stones into a river.
That day had been blue-skied but cold. Richard didn’t remember why they had built the cemetery around the stream. The water was clear in the autumn and every stone was deceptively close to the surface. A child’s giggle broke the windy silence. The little girl was only two years old, and not tall enough to see over the field of perfect white crosses. Her coat was buttoned up to her chin and her short brown hair was quickly escaping its pink bows. She was bending over awkwardly as a child does and pulling stones out of the untrimmed grass at the river’s edge. They would then fly through the air about a foot and a half and splash into the river. With every splash came another giggle.
Then she turned and walked straight-kneed to Richard. She tugged on the hem of his black overcoat and looked up at him. He knew what she would say.
“Papa?” The only word she really said. Richard drew a sharp breath, he never got used to it. “Papa?” He leaned down to pick her up. Then he sighed and turned his back to the wind.
He looked over to the women standing by one of the crosses. One of many crosses. Their hats, firmly pinned in their hair, struggled. One woman lifted her hand to steady it, showing her slender wrist and single silver bracelet. Richard looked away and didn’t move for almost fifteen minutes. The wind blew straight through him. He was not so young anymore.
The little girl had fallen asleep on his shoulder. Richard looked down at her tiny face and whispered, “He’s not here anymore is he.” Michel. They said he died a hero, but what use is a dead hero? A dead man can’t raise his daughter.
Richard reached with one hand into his pocket and pulled out the black knight. It seemed colder than usual, even having been inside his coat for most of the morning. He put it in the girl’s pocket. She shifted and put her hand on Richard’s shoulder.
He blinked back into the present. What had been the little brown-haired girl’s name? He was ashamed to have forgotten. The boy was looking at him sharply. Richard straightened and took the wooden box from him.
“Please, sit.” He motioned to a chair by one of the tables. The boy did, trying very hard to look bored. “What did you say your name was?”
“Remy.” The boy didn’t make eye contact. Richard nodded and took the white knight out of the box and reached across the table to set it on a square to Remy’s left.
“Well, Remy, my father taught me how to play chess, and I taught my son.” Remy rolled his eyes.
“A real gentleman knows how to play chess.” Richard said with a smile.
“Maybe I don‘t want to learn.” The boy retorted. “Only boring old men play chess anyways.”
Richard smiled widely as he lined up the pawns. Tomorrow would be another day to remember, but now, the board was set and the sun was clearing away the fog. He smiled sagely and turned to his opponent and student.
“Perhaps you don’t want to learn, but this ornery old man is going to teach you either way. White moves first, any pawn, either one or two spaces…”
Okay. So there they are.
On to my stuff of today--
French word of the day- coquette, meaning flirt, or flirty. I like it. We learned it while watching the film of Cyrano De Bergerac, starring Gerard Depardieu (click here). Oui, Roxane est une coquette. Elle prend quoi elle veut. Okay. Done now.
Japanese word of the day- rekishi, meaning history. I just learned this word. We were talking about school. I love japanese lessons. Mako-sensei and Beeken-sensei are great teachers ^_^. I'm very grateful to them.
Picture for today-
Its L. I've been reading alot of DeathNote. Its much less, innocent?, as alot of shojo manga I read. I guess its not shojo at all. I don't mind. I have this theory, comparing shojo and shonen (girls and boys comics). Girls wear both pants and skirts, but guys generally only wear pants, so its like girls usually read both shojo and shonen, but boys generally stick with shonen. This is a generalization. Don't eat me.
My biology group filmed a video yesterday for our project. We don't actually have to present however, because most of our group is leaving early for spring break next week and we won't be able to go. Its a trailer for a hypothetical movie based on a book that we 'chose' to read for class, called Lab 257 by Michael C. Carroll. Don't read it. It was so horrible, I didn't finish it, but don't tell my bio teacher. Click here if you want to know more. Amazon people gave it 4 out of 5 stars! What the hell? I guess only people who liked it rated it.. It was so horrible. Don't try. Our movie is cool though. Except it isn't finished. After I finish, I'll put it up here.
So, I'm sure you're all asking, what's new at Poudre High School, where our beloved blogger Bailey attends so diligently and enthusiastically every single day?
Welllll...
how about a handy dandy bulleted list?
- CSAPs are next week. And I don't get to miss them. CSAP is colorado's standardized test. This year, alot of people are choosing to not take them because their parents are not into it, but the teachers are pushing it. They want us to get good scores so they will get money, and not taking the test is entered as a big ugly zero. I wonder why they think we'll be sympathetic. We're the ones forced to do all this weird review study shit just so we won't fail the stupid test. They spend so much time teaching us to write well and uniquely then tell us, (I quote my english teacher. Although not word for word.. whatever) "write exactly what they want to see. Go back to fifth grade, and write something with obvious structure and cheesy transitions. Forget everything we've taught you". I suspect I'm a rebel here. I'm going to write something bizarre. I don't care about my score, I have good enough grades to get into college anyways. I'm a freshman, why should I be thinking that far ahead anyways? Gaa!
- I'm missing the only possibly fun day this entire year to instead be on an airplane. Fuck. I'm missing international day, instead staying through the last few days of unbearable school. I don't even get to miss any sex week. Health is so awkward. But in 3 weeks the PE part is beginning. I'm looking forward to it.
- I just began the new play, my third this year. I'm quite excited about it, its called 43 plays for 43 presidents (click here), a political piece documenting america's entire political history. It has a cast of 5, and I'm one of two costumers. It'll be fun ^_^. I just last month finished the spring play, Under the Gaslight (click here), a melodrama. That was fun, and I scored points with the costuming career, by costuming a lead. It was quite a challenge. I hope someday I can live up to Sierra, the costume-amazing-person. She's a senior and so cool. And not a british man... The first play/show/musical I ever costumed was the famous Once Upon A Mattress (click here), and that was so much fun too! The costumes were great, princess dresses for almost everybody! But with a cast of fifty and several dance numbers, wow! I guess theater is usually like this.
- My percussion ensemble did our concert on thursday. That was cool. Who would have thought temple blocks could be bad-ass? And I wore my converse instead of my black flats because I still have blisters from the last time I wore the flats. And my boyfriend noticed. I was really happy :).
- SPRING BREAK!! breathe breathe.
Okay, enough bullets.
Top 5 Songs of today
1. This is Halloween - from Nightmare Before Christmas
2. My Name Is - by Eminem. I hate lauren for giving me this song.
3. Float On - by Modest Mouse. I need to chill out
4. Red Flag - by Billy Talent. I'm in the weirdest mood right now. Both badass and upset and not.
5. Foux de Fa Fa (sp?)- from Flight of the Conchordes, which brings us to the video of the day
Its amazing. Do you speak basic french? If you don't think so, this video will teach you otherwise. See how many words you can pick out! (If the player doesn't work, click here)
Quote of the day, courtesy of Mona from my french class who has taught me my first arabic words, meaning 'idiot'.
"Je t'aime comme j'aime ma grand-mere et mon chien... mais plus."
-Mona
Thank you for your sincerity and eloquence. French is the language of love, n'est-ce pas?
Do you know basic french? Here's a cool site for stuff like that--- CLICK HERE
Word. (strangest way of saying good bye ever. anyway. word. peace and shit.)
bAiLeY
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