Category: Junior Literary

Over the course of a year, I have been trying my absolute hardest to change. At my old school, I was, well, weird. This ideology (that people enforced around me) reminded me of a hamster ball or even bubble wrap, something to encase my “all-around strangeness”. No one wanted to get my kind of personality on them.

In my head, I have always seen myself as the equivalent of human sludge. Slow moving, never taking form, and leaving traces where I go. This doesn’t bother me, as I want to make an impact, but other people tend to see me as some sort of detriment because of this.

I know I am a freak of nature. I am not wanted in a regular conforming society, nor do I want to be wanted.

Its as simple as this: conforming would kill me. To be the same as another carbon-cut life form drains me of my personal whatever-it-is I’m trying to seek. I purposely broke the fourth wall with the intentions of finding the fifth, if that makes sense. I am beyond the realm of normal, and I am having trouble even remembering what normal feels like.

(It might be that I have gone too far into the land of the crazies.)

I can feel this uneasiness collecting like dust along my shoulder blades. I am uncomfortable in this skin, same as the last. I will shed and shed and grow and break and build once more, but will ever be a definite concept? A whole substance?

Yes, that is what my personality needs-substance. I need to stop shifting with the water and lean into the comfort of just alright for now. 

Three years from now, I see myself being irrational. Twenty years from now, I see nothing. I guess that means my prediction of “dead after 23” must be what my future is expecting to happen.

(I don’t know what I am trying to get at, and I think I changed what I wanted the point of this to be.)

Anyway, at this school, I have been deemed as less than. A weaker link. Submissive.

I want it to be said that if any of you actually believe this, you haven’t been paying attention. I am playing this game like this on purpose, I promise.

My whole “thing” is that if you let people believe you are less than them, they will give you more information than they would have at first. I sit, I watch, I wait. (And I react crazily to throw everyone off my trail.)

Here’s my big secret, guys. This is it. I act on impulse to watch the reactions of others. I have no limits in order to understand the condition of my surroundings better. I am too self aware to focus on myself when I do irrational things. Instead, I am only focused on the social situation. Also, I do think through everything I do, and how it affects others. It’s exactly why I feel the need to do it.

I have never really needed to explain what I am to anybody, but I am starting to realize how off people are when they think they understand me. I would love for people to believe I am not just insane, but intuitive.

And if you don’t believe any of this, congrats! You are entitled to your own opinion. My praxis is something hard to understand, I get that. Just please, know that I let myself get pushed around or into situations it’s because that’s the only way I know how to “control” the situation.

(I am not making sense, sorry, I’m trying.)

I am the owner of a predicament if I cause that predicament. I create, then destroy. I am the beginning and end to my own problems, the designer of my catastrophe.

No one needs to give me excuses.

I let myself look dull for the sake of time. I do not have the patience to please everyone, but I go out of my way to do that sometimes, so that I might learn more a bout their human nature, and my own.

I’m just trying to figure things guys, and I’m not weak or submissive.

I am only waiting.

I want to swim in whiskey waters, become champion
of fight club, melt plastic cups of ramen in the microwave
and eat it anyways. I want to spray paint the police station–
but something nice like “have a good day.”  I want to wave
at the cops with  the residue on my hands, daring them
to arrest me.  Find fortunes fall from the ceiling tiles,
Love poems stuffed in the dashboard of used cars.
I want to feel the love and fortune, pierce my ears
when I’m angry and pop them when they’re infected
without flinching.  Dye my hair a new color every week,
shave it when I get bored.  Follow bike trails drawn
under bathroom counters, right beside the picture
of a chicken laying an egg.

I am nine years old. I can swim. I can fly. I can sing. I can be a giant monster if requested. I have watched the fall of the Roman empire. I have witnessed the death of the two million people plagued by the black death. I can twirl in front of millions warranting a standing ovation. I can become a God if enough determination is applied. I can solve all of the problems of the world if people were willing to give it over to me. The notion is that I am, I can and I will be. This applies in the form of excitement and reckless power. A power so strong that the very thought of it could kill a man or a thousand and it has. It has leached its way into everyday minds and hands. Basically forcing them to commit millions to their knees and to the dirt. The very thought of others rolling around in the muck is tantalizing in this nirvana type headset. It’s perfect in the sense that it is imperfect. The imperfectness is amazingly tangible, pliable, and addictive. Stepping into it is like walking on water, turning bread to fish, raising a whole sea with the flick of your wrist. Infinite in the retrospect of being mundane. The request and the freedom of giving a little to receive the world are imminent to everyone now. Your very fingertips tingle with the surge of 7 billion lives at your disposal. Truly magnificent and deadly and terrifyingly present. To say you want it is an understatement. You need it. It is used to fuel us. To push the creative energy that seems to bounce in our heads screaming for release into the air screeching its energy to the wind and turning the atmosphere sour. You could witness the rotting and corroding of a whole generation caught in the tide of our own fists. Almost like the hard-faced exterior of a dictator foaming at the mouth to be heard. They are more rabid than man, less than human. We could be more than that, so human that we change the name of the game. we could make our own characters, set our own times form, in a sense, our own world, our own existence. Without the consequences or the chains or the eyes. Just us and our determination for better or for worse. Even though the choice is sickening it’s still a win-win no matter the path. So what do you say?

Look into the mirror and realize you want to die.

Like a girl in her teens again obsessing over men who are not yet men and girls who are more woman than you.
First, you will go to class as if nothing ever happened, like everything is fine. You’ll make it to third period before you meet him, and he’ll be wearing your favorite shade of blue.
He’ll notice you immediately, and though you’ve never met before, the intensity of his stare will make you and anyone else think otherwise.
Instead of your name, he asks your major, you say Interior Design. And like smoke seeps into couch cushions, his energy, his power, seeps into you. You don’t want to die as much as you did five hours ago. You crack a smile.
Both of you are coincidentally free in the same hour. You go get coffee. You order a Vanilla Frappe and he orders coffee, black. He calls you cliché for your frappe and you call him bitter for black.
There you are, basking in someone else’s energy, one that’s not your own destructive rage and fury, and you love it. Yet you still don’t know his name, but you don’t care.
He says it’s time for him to go, that he’ll see you some time later, though he’s hesitant to leave.
You don’t pay attention to his farewell, as it’s almost impossible for him to find you on such a campus.
As days go by, you forget him. You are your own energy again, you are consumed.
You are sitting outside of a coffee shop, writing a letter to someone who will never read it. Then there’s a tap on your shoulder, it’s him. In green now, he looks more appealing and although you’ve never liked forests, this shade changes your mind.
He asks you on a date, specifically “would you like to go out some time?”
And you oblige. You haven’t been out in a while, so why not.
You find yourself in a bar, three drinks in and you’re still sober. He’s also on number three but spouting nonsense left and right at whoever walks by. He’s funny, really funny. You laugh so hard that your stomach hurts.
That night when you are alone, you want to die again.
You will see all your insecurities and they will consume you entirely.
You’ll sleep, trying to forget them for now.

I’m not going to call what I’m feeling depression because I haven’t been diagnosed by someone that has any authority to, but I don’t feel how I used to.  I don’t feel inspired to do things the way that I can so vividly remember having been.  I don’t know why.  Nothing’s changed externally.  By all accounts, I should feel no different, but still, I feel this sadness inside of me that I cannot explain.  I’m not suicidal.  I don’t want to stop living.  There’s so much more in this world that I still want to experience, but at the same time, I don’t feel like doing anything.  I hold out hope that this will pass.  I’ve felt like this before and it has always gone away before, but with that knowledge, I know that it’ll always be right around the corner waiting for me no matter what.  I can’t fight it off.  I just have to sit there and let it beat me until it gets bored and leaves, but I know that it leaving is only a break for it.  At any moment it could resume its constant torture.  All I can do is try to keep living the way that I was when it wasn’t there, but it only produces a cheap imitation.  I’m sure someone will notice it eventually, but I don’t know.  Maybe they won’t, and I just notice because I know the way that I should be.  Maybe they have noticed and have chosen to not do anything.  I don’t think I even want help.  They couldn’t help if they tried, honestly, but knowing that they were trying would mean something.  I don’t know if I would try.  I could say that maybe I don’t understand what it’s like or what to do, but that’s a lie.  I know more than I can even express of what it’s like, but in the end, I might just be too selfish to concern myself with the whole thing.  Maybe I wouldn’t even notice because I’d be too concerned with myself.  Maybe that’s what it is.  Maybe everyone is too busy paying attention to themselves to see the way that I am.  I can’t even blame them.  I know that I’m no better.  Maybe this whole thing was just a way to justify my own selfishness, or maybe it was a cry for pity.  I don’t know, and I don’t think it’d change anything if I did.  I really just know that I hate myself sometimes.

It was around four o’ clock in the morning when I heard it. I had been on the phone with my friend when the sound of something moving behind my dresser caught my attention.

“Hush,” I whispered.

“What?” Carolyn whispered back.

“I… think there’s something in the room with me. Be quiet.”

I listened. The back of the dresser faced a corner and I could hear something moving around in the space behind it. This corner also happened to be the same corner that I kept my bat in. This bat also happened to be my only defense I had against intruders.

Whatever it was had to be smaller than a person but bigger than a squirrel judging by the space it was in and the amount of noise it was making. I slowly walk across the room, not taking my eyes off of the dresser, then make my way down the stairs. I open the door to let a cat in to see if they can hear the same things I’m hearing. The cat that rises to the cause is our orange tabby foster cat, Katnip.  She runs up the stairs and I slowly follow behind.

“I’m scared,” Carolyn whispers.

“Why are you scared? You’re not the one in the room with an unidentified animal,” I hiss.

The cat examines the corner for a moment and then to my surprise, turns away.  I decide to man up and look in the corner myself only to find nothing out of the ordinary. I take the bat out of the corner. What could have been making that noise? Did it go somewhere else when I went down stairs? But the cat doesn’t notice anything. Maybe I’m just hearing things. I reassure Carolyn that it was probably nothing and continue our conversation from before.

It was really late but my nerves were too high to try and sleep so I decide to do a late night organizing spree. Still on the phone with Carolyn, I start to take down some old artwork from my wall while the cat sits at my heels. That’s when I saw some movement out of the corner of my eye near the bed.

I look over to see my shoes being slowly being pulled under my bed. There is a bed sheet hanging off of the mattress so I can’t see what is pulling them but I don’t need to, to know that I needed to get out of there.

I hang up the phone and race down to my parent’s room.

“There’s something in my room,” I say urgently.

My dad shoots up out of bed. “What’s in your room?”

“I don’t know it’s just something- I heard it making noise then it pulled my shoes under the bed! Just come on!”

I lead the way back to my room and he starts to search the room while I recount the story in more detail. He searches for ten minutes or so only to find nothing.

Where did it go? There was definitely something here. I closed the door on the way out so it couldn’t have gotten out unless it was intelligent enough to open doors. I don’t know what to think at this point.

My dad leaves the room and says that we’ll talk about it in the morning. I look back at my phone and see its blown up with messages from Carolyn. I text her that I’m fine and turn off the lights. I’m more confused than scared at this point. If there really was something here then how did it get in and where did it go? If there really wasn’t anything then what does that say about me? Am I loosing it?

butterfly kisses and hard-won breaths,

torn clothes and filthy skin,

the weight of the world on your shoulders,

cold eyes and forked tongues-

all aching to land like whips on your self-worth.

cool night breezes that sweep away the  sweat of today’s mask.

broken promises that lead to a broken home,

that leads to walls that refuse to come down.

even to silken touches,

your body is coarse from weathered hands.

aching feet tired of carrying the burden of you –

and your mind.

tear holes in yourself to let the light in.

stand alone in the dark,

realize you’re not alone.

sprawl i (flatland) // arcade fire, sprawl ii (mountains beyond mountains) // arcade fire

sprawl is defined by merriam-webster as “the spreading of urban developments (such as houses and shopping centers) on undeveloped land near a city.” the word can be synonymous with the suburbs, but i don’t know if i’d agree. then again, maybe i don’t know that much about the suburbs.

but i think hernando is the sprawl. hernando is this little town that veers off from the main interstate like a weigh station. within walking distance from my house is the track and field park, the children’s park, several churches and locally-owned shops, and town square. last year, our kroger was demolished and up-sized to a kroger marketplace. everyone was buzzing about it for months, mostly because it was supposed to have a starbucks in it. a starbucks and a little food court and an actual cheese section, which my dad was very excited about.

hernando was always homey, but it never quite felt like home. it always felt like a halfway-home. an in-between. not quite backwoods country, not quite big shining city.

there used to be times when i thought i’d never really get out. that i’d be doomed to live in the suburban purgatory that i never quite belonged in forever. i wanted to go out and find my people. i wanted to find people who didn’t tell me that my hopes and expectations were unrealistic.

i wanted to find those people here, but i don’t think i’ve found them yet. it’s like i’m still stuck in a halfway-home that i should feel like i belong to, but don’t.

when i’m going back home, back to hernando and the kroger marketplace and the community that never quite felt like community, i actually feel like i’m home again. when driving back to msa, my mom always texts me when i get in, “home?” and i say yes, because techincally, msa is home.

but it doesn’t quite feel like home. it feels like the in-between again. and i’m so tired of being stuck in the in-between. i want a place to certifiably call home, i want concrete and certainty and home, and i’ve started to realize just how at home i actually feel in hernando.

when school first started, i didn’t want to come home. i dreaded every weekend i would have to go back and be away from my true home, but now i long for the days i see commerce street. i long for the days i can walk into la siesta and shake our waiter’s hand and he knows exactly what i want before i can form the words on my tongue. i long for the familiarity and the comfort and the community i didn’t realize i had until i wasn’t in it anymore.

i don’t quite know where home is. i know i have homes, but i don’t know where my home is. i don’t know where i live. maybe i never will get out of the sprawl.

but then again, maybe i don’t want to.

I don’t believe in an objective best and worst in reference to art, so when I say that I’m writing about the best thing that I’ve ever read, what I mean is that I’m writing about my personal favorite piece of writing that I have read.  The best work of literature that I’ve had the pleasure of reading in my opinion is East of Eden by John Steinbeck, and there are numerous reasons why.

(spoiler alert for East of Eden – Please read the book before this post.)

One of the stand out reasons that makes this novel the masterpiece that it is are the characters.  Every last one of them is believable, distinct, and excruciatingly fascinating.  Cathy Ames serves as an antagonist, but she is so much more than that.  Even though the reader will come to dislike her very much over the course of the book, they will always be fascinated by her motives and means of reaching them.  She even plays on the reader’s own hopes for humanity by seeming to develop an actual loving relationship with the madame of a whorehouse.  Even though we’d already seen her kill and abandon her family and home, we hang onto hope that there is a sliver of humanity left in her, but we are fooled as should have been expected and feel like fools because of it.  This perfectly parallels another aspect of her character that makes her so incredible;  to other characters, she appears completely innocent.  She utilizes their faulty perception of her to take advantage of them and more than anyone else, she does this to Adam.

Adam is an equally incredible character in my opinion.  He serves as our protagonist throughout the first half of the book, and the first half of one of the two pairs of siblings throughout the book that mirror the biblical story of Cain and Abel.  Adam despite not setting out to, always earns all admiration from his father.  A key aspect of Adam’s character is his unwillingness to take action in nearly any circumstance.  He depends upon his brother to defend him, so he becomes completely submissive to him to the point that when his brother turns on him and beats him, he allows himself to be beaten.   After marrying Cathy and having her bare twin sons to him, he makes no true effort to make her stay.  Additionally, he completely shuts down after she leaves, and does not name his sons for months after they were born.

As I approach a limit on how long this post can be, I know that I cannot talk nearly as much about this masterpiece as it deserves to be talked about.  With that in mind, I can only end this by discussing one of the absolutely best characters within the book and the overarching theme throughout the story associated with him, Lee and Timshel.  Lee is a servant hired by Adam who ends up taking care of the two twins and serving as a source of wisdom and insight to all who he interacts with.  In many ways, he is more of a father to the twins than Adam ever was.  He first introduces us to the concept of Timshel during a conversation with a neighbor of Adam.  They are discussing the story of Cain and Abel and there is a specific part of the story that is translated very differently between two common versions of the Bible.  One promises a triumph over sin while another demands a triumph over sin.  Lee decides to trace the problem to its roots, and after a long amount of research, he discovers that the most accurate translation of the term in question, Timshel, is thou mayest.  This gives the choice to each person as to whether or not they will conquer sin.  It does not promise it, and it does not demand it.  It is a perfect theme for the book, and in the end, which I will not give away even to the masochists that have read this far without having read the book despite my spoiler warning, this theme ties everything together absolutely perfectly.