The first thing you'd see is a typical honors kid - large dark eyes behind blue rimmed glasses, holding all the bookish knowledge. The girl's curious eyes asking for more, conflicted with the tight smile silently begging to be left alone.
She'd wear her dark straight hair up in a ponytail, with a pink baseball hat. With the pink sports backpack, she'd deceive anyone. But her scrawny figure in an over-sized men's sweatshirt, underneath a denim shirt from Goodwill, with a pair of jeans ripped from overuse - told a different story. So did her punk boots picked from garage sale.
She hid her scars under thick spike bracelets, another piece that did not match with the silver heart locket hanging from an unusually long necklace.
Even with all the pieces roughly glued together, she had yet to find out which was her real face.
I could feel my heart beat… every single pound in my chest. Not through my ears, that was occupied by the steady drum, pipe, and dark voice of the Celtic music; drowning it out in the ears. But I couldn't lay there. I had to but I couldn't. This great pounding, this great pressure; every beat. I couldn't hear it, but I could feel it. It remains now, even as I write, it remained through what little of the Great Gatsby I could shove down my throat. It remained when I stood and stumbled into the other room trying to relieve myself of the small dogs who wouldn't stop nagging. That dark beating remained, alone in this house with me. Every beat a turbulent push from within pushing as a giant placed within the chest; as a great wave against a minuscule dike. This pressure urges the words, this horrible pressure. I tried sleeping through it, drums beating along with the muscle; but the music lost, ran out of time. I don't know for what reason I have to be placing these words here. I started in an attempt at relief, from the beating; some trickle of words to relieve the flood. I can feel it still, beating, pulsing, thumping. It didn't work; why won't it stop.
There was something comical about a balloon whisk, or so Inga thought. She imagined it in the sky above a basket and flame, allowing all the hot air to escape to the clouds above. Perhaps, she giggled to herself, it was something Wile E. Coyote might try.
They were more like shadows than physical beings - lightly resembling humans-shape wise, but only black smoke. Each form rippled whenever it moved like disturbed water. The only way I knew they were looking at me was the white eyes with a slight blue hue that stood out against the darkness.
The rain bore down mercilessly upon the heart of the city, pounding on the rooftops and turning the cobbled streets of the Downtown District into a warren of slick stones and muddy waters.
Located only a stone’s throw from the high stone walls of the Gaol, the old wooden tavern known as the Guardhouse is easy to find. The warm light from its windows and the trailing smoke from its chimney serve as beacons of refuge and comfort to those caught out in the storm.
Hold every bad memory in your left hand; every good memory in your right. Now hold every one of them in your brain at the same time, an awareness without words. Then realise how much we invent at the interface between the world of dreams and memory, how great we are at creating our own fictions to enable us to handle our emotions and navigate our world. In each hand the memories have been transformed into a fine and fertile earth, it rains to your feet, the richness from which all your future grows. You are your own best healer my love, it is right there in your brain, the power to transform yourself.
My mother stayed home to care for us, and we had the greatest childhood imaginable. What irks me though is when people say she didn't "work." And that's not just because she worked hard every day caring for us, it's that the words themselves suggest she was in some way broken or defective. Perhaps an old radio doesn't work, or some electronic gadget that got all wet... but my mom, she worked better than most folks. By making all those loving choices every day, by showing self control when your average office worker would lose their cool, she built a truly better brain. My mom is smart, funny, loving, self controlled and responsible. Frankly, for those who can't do all that, irrespective of your employment status, can you say that you really work?
One morning, in social study class, the teacher explained the term, “Dysfunctional families.” Marshall sat up in his desk. That description fit his family perfectly. All the hype through the years about happy families at Thanksgiving and Christmas left him empty, sad. Those two holidays were even worse for his family, and he dreaded them to heart sickness. He knew exactly what would happen. His dad would drink even more. More than once, his dad brought drinking buddies home for “thanksgiving dinner.” This “thanksgiving” dinner was a “usual” meal, with the exception that his mom said a prayer. Why? What did she or any of the family have to be thankful for? How could his mom be thankful for such confusion, and yelling and screaming? How could anyone thank a God who allowed such misery? When he was younger, Marshall had to stay at home for the long nights of discontent on Thanksgiving and Christmas. Now that he was older, he could grab his coat and hit the streets. It was cold out, and his jacket was thin. However, it was quiet in the downtown park.