Category: Junior Literary

“Sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth Death.” (James 1:15)

There were six cars ahead when I heard the screaming. A boy and a log truck, pancake cooked against the pavement. Six cars scrambled to back away and I biked forward, through the scene. Blue lights blinding, no one could see.-the boy was not dead; he had fallen asleep. The Red was dreamspilling from the left ear.

Trusting someone is harder to do when you can’t trust yourself. There is a  thin line between nostalgia and homesickness. I do not know how to reminisce without a home, so I stack my cards on the streets curbs and play until I find myself in a passenger seat. I haven’t forgotten the sleeping boy.

We are all (at some point or another), put into a box. We fill the shoes of someone before us. There is no originality in life- you are eventually going to realize you only believe you’re different because everyone else feels exactly he same way, and ,when you do see this truth, you will want to die.

Don’t worry, that’s exactly how each person besides yourself experienced it.

(You see, we are in a circle loop of the butterfly effect, and this time, there’s no retracing your steps.)

Mary threw her legs over the Thanksgiving dinner and carved her baby teeth from her gums instead of the Turkey. I see no problem with this. Let Mary bleed from her jaw, eat the Turkey with your fingers. Better yet, go Vegan.

There is nothing beautiful about sadness. The idea might be to the existentialists who are always to high, to be anything but high, but in reality, sadness is nothing but sadness. There is good feeling that comes from sadness is when it ends. ( If ever.) There is nothing if you sit stagnant in the Sad.

Romanticizing numbness only makes you more numb, not in love. I think a lot of people don’t understand that yet.

We are covered in Sins. In our lack of grace. (Or too much of it?)

I don’t walk through the valley of death because my legs are tired. I take a nap in the gutter, then go back and play cards. Build houses, watch them crumble. The sheep follow me now. I know no God, no masters, nothing is mine and I am nothing.

If ever I get the chance, every sidewalk light will go out.

I am not afraid. You should be.

One morning you wake up. Get dressed. Brush your teeth brush your hair. Pick out any random old outfit, you didn’t feel like dressing up that day. Apply cologne or perfume. Smear on some makeup, but maybe not. You didn’t intend for yourself to look nice but smiling in the mirror you consider yourself nice looking. At least for that day. You grab your phone look through your social media. Like photos of people you don’t talk to but pretend you actually still consider them friends. You stop at a photo of a girl posting a quote about how she wants to be in love. You smile knowing you have someone to love. Their face may flash in your mind or it might not. Any way it goes you feel that familiar warmth that you get from thinking of then even if you didn’t.  Then you feel a discomfort but ignore it because today is supposed to be an OK day. You put on clothes grab a shower or just leave entirely because you had one that night. Walk down the concrete steps it echoes with every step. realized too late that you forgot you badge run up and get it. You look around the tables take a seat near friends not your love because they are sitting with people you don’t like. People that you feel that discomfort towards. It lingers like a really bad smell, it sticks too you and as the day goes on you feel a eternal dread for something out of your control. But, you ignore it chop it up to a gut feeling. You’ve had many “gut feelings” all of which were wrong. Some, of course, proving correct but that’s all superstition. The day continues as normal you begin to forget why you were so anxious as it moves along in a steady pace you see them. Standing alone or perhaps not but still there, you smile for a moment regain some type of posture and walk up. Not to quick not to slow you wouldn’t want to seem rushed. They are just a person someone normal not anything special. So why does your heart jump and your skin catch on fire. Maybe you can put it out before you reach them but no use you burn in their presence, but at least you stand a little more unique in the crowd. If there is a crow that is. They may smile or not. You may wave or smile, too or frown or push them backwards and say the words “I hate you”. Its entirely a joke but for that moment you kinda want to. But they do smile from that comment adding on a quick ” I hate you, too” because that’s how this game works that’s how the race is won. Whoever can say I hate first and mean it is the real winner but neither are going to. But from behind fluttered eyelashes, you know deep down that it may be on their tongue, and that’s when the dread comes back.

An airplane is midflight when each passenger drops dead, all but you. Pilot sunk low into the front seat, you, strapped into the metal death bad, what’s next? This is normally the part when “Cut!” is yelled across the stage and the screen rolls into black paneling. All fourteen dead bodies will rise and look for the snack table. Real life becomes less real again.

To You, the one I keep writing to:

I am sick of things not working the way they are supposed to. I lose my phone at least twice a day, I run into the drawers on my cabinets, forget to clean the spot of toothpaste on my glasses, halfway write an essay for ten more minutes of gossip with friends. I am tired of what life really is, and also tired of the live reality that I actually want. It’s not real, its a façade, an oasis, a place I would never be happy in, and I know that. I thrive in the midst of Hell, and its always been like that. I am not one for stagnant waters, and, every now and then, a little sea monster coming to chomp my sailboat in half is enough to inspire me, if not push me to keep swimming.

Sometimes when I am eating food, I forget to chew and swallow so much air down with it I gag. Sometimes, I wear shirts with holes in the armpits. Sometimes, I don’t do my homework but pay for someone’s dinner and then wear my contacts to bed. It’s a rough time, but also a generous one. Little things like these help me appreciate the nice parts of life. If everything was good, I’d be more boring than I already am, which might kill me. I want to paint daisy’s on the tips of my friends’ eyelashes. I want to breathe underwater like a goldfish and gulp down the pennies thrown into my koi pond. I want to be able tot hold my breath for more than ten seconds. I want to feel something.

And that’s why life has to be the worst thing I’ve ever experienced – so it can also be the very best thing I’ll ever do. (Duh.)

I plan to laugh when I stub my toe walking out of the girl’s bathroom. I will cry during Dove skincare commercials with no shame. I will yell and twitch and hurt and love and be too much for even me to handle.

And it will have to be enough for the both of us, because I am tired of apologies.

I really want to be a writer.  That’s what I want my career to be.  That’s what I want myself to be.  I have so much that I feel the need to say.  It’s not all world-changingly important, but I just have this need to get it into the world anyway.  When I look at writers that succeed nowadays, all I can think is that none of them are really doing what I want to be doing.  The most popular modern writers are writing YA novels that can be easily adapted into blockbusters.  I have an enormous amount of respect for writers like this.  I have an enormous amount of respect for their writing.  A lot of the kind of books I’ve described are what got me into reading and ultimately into writing, but they just aren’t the kind of writing that I personally want to make.

What scares me is that I feel like there are writers like me already out there.  The problem is that they aren’t big names.  It’s not that I want fame, but it’s necessary.  I want to reach a wide audience, and fame would be part of doing that.  I don’t feel like I’d be breaking any mold with my writing in a way that it would reach a really wide audience like I’d like to.

I honestly don’t understand why I want many people to read my work.  I think it might be because I’m afraid of being forgotten.  I think about death a lot.  Honestly, it’s been bothering me a lot less lately.  I don’t want to die, but I’m more accepting of the fact that I will die.  I’ve kind of accepted the fact that I’ll eventually be forgotten.  The thought of being forgotten has always come with this imagery of being blown away by wind as a million specks of dust and separated out into the universe.  It used to make me cringe, but it’s almost comforting now.  The thought of not having the pressure of being an individual but being a part of a greater collective is nice in a lot of ways.

As I think about it, that seems kind of like how cults happen.  Everyone wants to feel like they’re part of something bigger than themselves.  Nothingness comes with isolation, but community creates an idea of something.  It can never deliver that something because it would always disappoint.  The idea of something is enough to satiate that desire.

I was worried that I would be struggling to hit 400 words for this to be a blog, but as soon as I started writing about death, the words just flowed out of me.  I think these feelings have been weighing on me for a while now, but I’m just now acknowledging them.  It wasn’t intentional; I didn’t realize they were there.  They worked their way out on their own.

This blog has taken a shift from when I started writing it.  I’ll probably change the title.   When I started writing it, I was really pissed at myself because I knew exactly what this blog would be.  It would just be me bitching about how I was afraid I wouldn’t be a successful writer, and I’m sure that the first half is.  The thing is, I felt no inspiration to write when I started this, so I just went with the first that popped into my head, and something else came out of it.  I don’t know if this is good, but it’s good for me.  I’m glad that writing gives me opportunities to work out feelings like this.  To circle back around to the original, unoriginal topic, I guess it doesn’t really matter who my writing reaches if I just allow it to reach into me.

suburban war // arcade fire

the summer before i came here, i had an accumulative two weeks to spare. my summer was filled with jobs and vacations and camps, leaving me with the occasional saturday and the last week of july.

on june 10th, i took the act. that night, i was at a friend’s farm on the other side of town, setting his chemistry notes on fire. there were six of us–five in chemistry together, and another who just wanted to tag along.

i’d never done anything like it before. i’ve never been to high school parties, never had the friends that would invite me to hang out after school. i haven’t been to a single sleepover in two years. my friends were always temporary fixes, and i still don’t know which of us was the one getting fixed.

half of us were leaving. two of us going to the mississippi school for math and science, and one–me–going to mississippi school of the arts.

this was our one last hurrah before three of us never set foot in the halls of hernando high school again.

we ordered pizza and listened to music and rode around in the back of a stick-shift truck around one kid’s farm. we set pizza boxes and old notes on fire and rolled down a hill inside a huge piece of tubing that was just laying around under an awning. i still have a quarter-sized dark spot on my left knee from one particular roll where we all toppled over ourselves, scraping knees and dirtying clothes.

i’d never felt like there was anything in this town that i would miss until i sat in the back of that truck, wind pulling my hair into my mouth and behind my glasses, watching the trees and tall grass blend into streaks of green. until i watched the orange flames crackle in blue darkness as my favorite songs echoed from the cabin behind us. until i felt the sting of new scars on my kneecaps. i took a lot of pictures that day, and every now and then i still find myself admiring that particular sunset with our wind-blown backs in the foreground.

another night, four of us went to another kid’s house and walked around the woods behind his family’s property. we tried to start another fire, but the freshly rained-on grass wouldn’t let sparks catch. so we decided to drive to the park and around town, the sky already that particular shade of navy where you can just slightly differentiate it from the black silhouettes of trees, one of my favorite bands blaring through the open windows of his car. i took two pictures that night, both fuzzy flashes of fuzzy memories, but they’re two of my favorite pictures i’ve ever taken.

after seven years of craving suburbia, i’d finally found it. i’d finally found the people who made home a place for my heart to live in, to feel warm in.

suburbia never came to me with people i used to tell everything to. it came to me with people i’d known since we were all nine years old but had hardly gotten to know until we all happened to have chemistry together. maybe the academic chemistry had more to do with it than the personal chemistry, but maybe it doesn’t matter.

those nights are still soundtracked by my favorite songs, whether the songs came from the cabin’s external speakers or a car’s internal ones. with my old friends, one of the biggest things we had in common was always music. now, i can’t even imagine what songs they may now call their favorites. maybe i’ve finally changed enough that they can’t imagine mine, either.

“I’m in love. I’m all shook up.”

Warning:  This is a rant about my unconditional love for Elvis Presley.

“You touch my hand and I’m a king…That’s the wonder of you.”

Elvis Aaron Presley.  I swear to God, I am naming my child after him.  I have already named my horse after him when he was foaled.   He is my hero.

“Take my hand.  Take my whole life, too.  For, I can’t help falling in love with you.”

Elvis will always have a place in my heart.  He made memorable music for any occasion and inspired and captured the hearts of many others.  Elvis is ranked among other great singers/songwriters such as Salinas, Whitney, and Garth.

“While I can dream, let it come true right now.”

As many people suspect, his songs aren’t about just love.  They represent emotions and conditions of the human heart.  For example, “In the Ghetto”.  They are also healing and distraction of those same emotions.

“Is your heart filled with pain…Tell me dear are you lonesome tonight?”

Elvis had an energy that makes you want to dance no matter your mood or the mood of the song.  Maybe this is why so many of his songs are featured in movies.  They get you pumped, excited for whatever comes next.  Or, they get you prepped and ready for all that’s coming.

“Well, he plays something evil.
Then, he plays something sweet.
No matter what he plays,
You got to get up on your feet.”

As you can tell, my love for Elvis is an endless pit.  I can’t tell you many more artists that I know of that have captured me with every song they’ve ever produced.

“When I first saw you, with your smile so tender, my heart was captured.  My soul surrendered.”

Elvis not only created musica with versatile moods, but his songs contained a new sense of genre and started a revolution in the industry.  Songs such as, “Jailhouse Rock” strongly promoted this new genre.

“Let’s rock.  Everybody let’s rock.”

Elvis knew his roots and never quite forgot them.   This is such and admirable trait.  He also tributed a song, “An American Trilogy” to soldiers of America.

“Oh, I wish I was in Dixie, away away, in Dixieland. I’ll take my stand to live and die in dixie, for Dixieland was where I was born..look away, look away Dixieland.”

I hope you can find love in your heart for such a devoted man.

Watch me stand alone at night and listen to the voices in my head-hear me scream your name in my sleep and wonder if it’s because I love or hate you.

Tell me that you love me, and realize that my walls have been up this whole time. You don’t want them to come down- I would be a different person. You’re already in love with the sad me, I shouldn’t bother with anything else.

Let me know how you feel on bad days and good days and all the days in between- send the ‘I’m busy’ text when I get emotional.

Wrap your vine arms around me and feel me shake, hold me tighter. Tell yourself that I’m cold and it’s not the fact that your arms remind me of a cage I couldn’t escapef. You don’t even know the story. My teeth have shattered.

Listen to my silence and make it your melody. Count the beats until I crescendo into nothingness. Breathe through your nose. Keep your back straight.

Follow me into the dark, strike a match and watch me burn. Relish in my light- singe your eyebrows. Take a step back. Stare as my ashes are blown away in the wind. Leave.

Eat my heart. Feel my blood soak through your tongue, washing away your lies with my own. Devour my eyes- see what I keep hidden.

Don’t let me see your scars. Feel the ridges on my arms and squirm- I’ll start to hide mine too. Long sleeves and locked up words. Everyone is satisfied. My throat is burning.

Wait until I’m asleep, cast your shadows on top of my own. Choke the flame from my dreams-make it your own.

Want what we can’t have. Wish on a million stars, beg the gods, hold your breath. Our hands do not fit together.

Fear the future. Flee from the right now. Hold down your shaking hands. Drop your concerns on my doorstep- don’t leave a return address.

Smile at my middle name. Tell me it fits perfectly- beauty and callus bring the smells of spring and my exhaustion.

Wonder when I’ll come to my senses- try to run back. Daydream of untied shoelaces and slippery streets. Feel content with broken bones.

Imagine a day when our eyes will be able to meet without the world erupting. It’s impossible. You squint your eyes. The picture stays fuzzy.

I wish I was built with the extraordinary capability to save everyone, but somehow everyone keeps slipping through my fingers, right into the Eater’s mouth.

The Eater is a rather misunderstood creature.  He eats memories and feelings, but most importantly he eats away at people.  Whenever people are gone or whoever they used to be are gone or you forget something, it’s the Eater who has eaten the Gone People.

He’s this force that is constantly chasing behind you, begging at your feet like a large dog underneath the dinner table.  Eventually, he will eat something, even if he has to knock off a few plates.  Sometimes, he’ll even break the table.

I have seen him eat person after person, as they fall into his mouth like a stale french fry.  And then the person who I was grasping onto to keep from falling is gone, they’re a Gone Person, and there’s nothing underneath be to keep me from the falling, falling, and falling…

You can’t come back from the Eater.  You can become a different person and still be alive, but the person you were before is gone.  That’s a Gone Person.

He’s always there, waiting to Eat you.  Sometimes, it can be a good thing.  If you don’t like who you are, you can fall back into him like a cocoon, except with teeth and stomach acid.

The truth is that he’s lonely, and he’s misunderstood.  The Gone People keep him company.  I have many versions of myself doing so.

You can save people from him, but sometimes you aren’t Enough.  And I wish I was Enough, I wish I was bursting with such Enoughness as others do.  Trying to save people hurts.  I am hurt.  I wonder why I am not Enough.

Why am I not brimmed with it so that it topples over when I walk?  I want people to come licking up behind me, thirsty for the taste.  They’ve never seen such Enoughness before!  Amazing!

Why am I so empty, so see-through and paper-thin without the Enoughness, that people slip right through my fingertips?

Sometimes I hate the Eater.  I hate him for hurting me like this, but it’s not him.  It’s them who led themselves down this path, all the while holding my hand just so I can watch them dangle.  It’s a slippery slope down the chair legs, right into the waiting dog’s mouth.

It doesn’t matter.  I am still hurt.  They are still Gone People.

Who is the Gone Person you speak of, Zoe?  People may ask.

Why, I say.  It’s me and you and it’s everyone.  The Gone is this virus that we breath and we spit and we kiss, it’s in the cracks of your lip and the juice of eye.

We’re all Gone People.

But I forgive you, Eater.