Stefanie: (one act play)

Rose (Stefanie): a 25 year old prostitute from LA who recently moved to New York City

Denny: a working class wife and father of two who has been working in the city his whole life

Denny had made an “appointment” for Rose to meet up with him at the Trump Towers at 2 A.M on this Saturday night. His wife and kids are away on a camping trip. It is fifteen past two and rose had just arrived, she sits at the edge of the bed.

Rose: So I basically charge about a hundred an hour depending on your…well your needs. So you can either pay before or (she pauses and looks up at Denny who is nervously twiddling his thumbs) Sir, are you alright?

Denny: What? Oh yeah I’m fine I just (he continues to twiddle his thumbs and look down upon her nervously) Can you give me a moment?

Rose: You gotta wife?

Denny: Ex-excuse me? Why does that matter? ( he gives her a glare like she’s meaningless)

Rose: Just wondering if you gotta wife is all, but I can tell you do. (Denny becomes quiet and stares down at the comforter which he is standing over) You love er?

Denny: Of course I do, she’s my wife.

Rose: Then why ya here? (she gives him a scolding look) Don’t tell me you got kids.

Denny: (lowers his head ashamed) I have two children, two girls. Fifteen and seven.

Rose: And they’re out of town right? They have no idea you’re here. You said you got some business to do while they go and have fun, but little do they know they’re hard working papa is just with some..

Denny: (cutting rose off rather angrily) Who are you to say anything? You’re nothing but some prostitute I found on craigslist. You don’t mean anything nor do you know anything. So why don’t you shut up before I take my money and go.

Rose: (quietly but with much force) Those little girls, I was them and my father..(she pauses briefly and appears to collect herself) I just know more than you think.

Denny: Look I am sorry about what you father did but my wife and I we don’t get along very well, at least not lately. She is always saying I need to spend more time with the family, but whenever I’m home she’s complaining we don’t have enough money for vacations and clothes. You know, it’s like I’m never good enough for her.

Rose: But you’re plenty good enough for someone like me right? Trash.

Denny: (looking down at his thumbs which are no longer twiddling) No not trash, just I don’t know. What’s your name anyways?

Rose: Rose on the job, Stephanie when I’m not.

(Denny’s phone begins to ring with his wives contact name and tears form in his eyes which he quickly wipes away)

Denny: You gotta husband? Kids?

Rose: Husband died few years back, he made the money. I have one son, Mason, he’s fourteen. (she cups her face in her hands and begins to sob) If he knew this is what I did, this is what I’ve become he would never forgive me. (she shakily lights a cigarette and takes a big puff)

Denny: You don’t have to be Rose tonight, how does that sound Stefanie?

Stefanie: What do you mean?

Denny: Well I’ll still pay you and all, but we don’t have to do anything, in fact I don’t want to. We can just sit here and talk, that way I won’t be cheating on my wife and you don’t have to be Rose tonight. Okay?

Stefanie: Well I mean, I guess that sounds alright. (she leans her head back against the head board and pulls out another cigarette) Want one?

Denny: Oh well I don’t.. well sure why not.

They both sat there all night, talking and puffing cigarette smoke. They talked about their kids and their spouses, anything there was to be talked about. They talked about Stefanie, not about Rose once that night.

Pic Perfect

Ninety four years old is a long time. Most people don’t even surpass eighty in this day and age, but somehow I’ve made it to ninety four, lucky enough to have most of my memories still. I glare at the old oak tree outside my bedroom window, as I hear my family scramble downstairs to set up my party. The tree never got weak, never slumped over like the other ones in the yard. It stood tall, through everything it has seen. When I was younger my father and I would hang up dozens on bird houses, I insisted because I didn’t want a single bird to go homeless. Birds of all kinds would flock to the tree, beautiful cardinals and blue jays. It was my favorite part of the year when we hung up those bird houses, there was a certain beauty in it. As the years went by more and more birds came and went, I almost remember every last one. My family says this is all I remember, the tree with the birds. I hear them whisper and say it’s the only thing I haven’t forgotten, but I don’t care. As my other memories fade all that remains is the pure joy of hanging bird houses with my father under the spring sun. When the tree begins to wither I will not be sad, for it has lived a long and meaningful life. 

Pic Perfect

You see me as a nobody. You see me as scum, worthless, no use to the world. Before you even say a word to me you think you know me. Nothing but a lazy bum who sits on the corner and begs for what you’ve earned, but do you know me? Do you know that I served in war to protect your rights? Did you know that? I was shot in the arm, to make sure our country was safe, our country that refuses to help me when I’m helpless and alone. Did you know I had two kids, emphasis on the had. I lived in a big house with two kids, a dog, and my wife. My wife who kicked me out when she found out about my Post Traumatic Stress, she kicked me out with nowhere to live. I haven’t seen those two kids since. I’ve volunteered for people like me, and before I thought the same as you. I thought homeless people do it to themselves. Why don’t they just get a job, I would ask myself. Only now I realize no one will hire a man with torn up clothes and who smells like garbage. I am not nobody, I lived my whole life as somebody, but now you only see me as nobody. 

Picture Perfect 2

We set fire, the two of us. Fifteen of my friends and I all ventured to the cove, just along the shore line. Our parents had no clue where we were, but we didn’t care, we wanted to feel free for one night. We ventured along the sand, the bottoms of our feet blistered from the scorching sand. As sunset fell, we lay our blankets out along the shore line, circled around the small fire we had burning. As everyone sat down to enjoy the fire and the marshmallows we brought to roast, I decided I wanted to take a walk. Through the slim dirt path I roamed, finding my way through the brush. The air was warm but had a damp breeze that made my salty hair flow behind me. As I sat down on a boulder, I came to a realization that he was following me through the brush. He sat down next to me, without a word. As the sun fell, my head did upon his shoulder. I could feel him laying his eyes upon me, but I didn’t look up at him, just at the setting sun. The sky was painted like fire, and I could feel it in every aspect of this moment. As I rose my head to gaze upon his, I saw the same fire that was painted across the setting sky. Burning passion, wild colors that made your heart rush and your own eyes wonder. The flames of the sky weren’t the one that caught mine, it was the burning flames that beheld down at me in two beaming sockets. As the sky burnt out, the only light that lit was those two passionate flames. Together we scorched there until there was nothing left to burn. 

Pic Perfect

pictures for pic

ture perfect

Picture Perfect 1

It was the day before, I took her for a walk through the mountains. She was much slower than she used to be. She used to run a mile ahead of me, chasing every squirrel in sight. As I gained my years, Daisy gained hers faster. The brown on her nose has faded to a light grey, but her eyes still remained bright whenever I came home from my long work day. I knew what was coming, but she didn’t and maybe it was better that way. A few weeks prior to Daisy and I’s exploit she had collapsed while running through the front yard, my daughter wailed out crying. She sat with Daisy in the middle of the yard, stroking her fur coat gently and reassuring her it’s okay. I pried my daughter off of the feeble Daisy, and rushed her to the vet. After twelve years with her, I thought this would be our last few hours together as she whined in the back seat with her muzzle pressed in the indent. I sat with her on the raw table and held her paw as her beaming black eyes stared at me, assuming the vet would say the worst. She had a tumor in her left front leg, a destructive one. He told me a twelve year old dog couldn’t handle this pain and I should put her down, but I asked for a few more weeks until we put her down, I couldn’t let go that easily. She had given her whole life to me, my daughter, my wife. She endured countless tail pulling’s and fur tugs from my budding daughter, yet she had never even nipped her slightly. Every single day she sat on the front mat until I came home, and despite how much pain she was in, she always jumped right up to great me. Daisy was a part of me, and I would want to live my last few weeks in pacification. So the day before I took her to the mountains, and everything felt blissful. I lay on the rocks next to a small pond while she breathlessly would guzzle large mouthfuls of water, limp over to me, and then proceed gulping the crystal water.  My fingers ran steadily through her greying fur as she panted, spilled her water all over my hiking boots. Maybe it was for me more than it was for her, letting Daisy enjoy her last few weeks, because burying an animal three feet under can be just as hard as burying someone six feet under. 

Alphabet Prompt

All he could say was I don’t know. Basically he didn’t know very much. Course he didn’t do too well in school. Don’t you know how to read, the kids would ask. Even the teachers complained, if he doesn’t know a B from an A how can we teach him? Forget me he’d say, just teach the others. Get out of here, the kids would sneer, school isn’t a place for kids who think an N is an M. How come you never learned, how come you didn’t get it? It was clear he knew his math, but the alphabet wasn’t for him. Just because I can’t get past F doesn’t mean I’m dumb, he said and they all laughed. Knowing it can’t be that hard, he yelled across the class. Let’s see him try and do this, after all these years of not knowing the kids laughed. More and more he studied, his A’s and B’s and C’s. No longer will they think I’m dumb, no longer will they doubt me. Over and over again, he’d say the letters out loud, A then C, or is it B? Practice, practice, practice. Quail starts with Q. Rocket is an R. Studying the letters over and over, until he almost had them all. Time consuming it was, although it did the trick. Ukulele starts with U. Vermont with a V. Wait I think I have it! X. Y. Z. 

Irony

It was the fifth of August 1996, a steaming hot day in Georgia. My overalls stuck to my thighs, and my cotton candy ice cream cone melted as my mother urged me to eat it before it melts all over my hand. Early that morning we attended church, due to my good behavior I earned the now melting ice cream cone. I trudged down the street holding onto my mother’s hand, almost being dragged as my sweaty legs slumped under me. We approached another church, just up the street from mine, and a group of men were standing outside; screaming and yelling. My mother told me to look forward “Don’t say a word you, just keep on walking” she said while wagging her finger in front of my face. “Well why Mama, what those men doin” I said confused. “Just keep on walking, don’t say a damn word” my mother said, she seemed afraid almost. I was about six at the time, just learning how to read, and their signs caught my eye. I stopped in the middle of the men, trying to read their signs. “Th-The Bible says-says no ho-homes” I read confused “Mama, why don’t the Bible want any homes?” I continued to ask her. “ I told you not to stop, that says homos not homes, now let’s go I have to make lunch” my mother said while tugging angrily at my arm. “No, let er stay, let her learn the right ways to be brought up” one of the men said blank. He knelt down and looked at me dead in the eye, getting closer to my face he said “Now little girl, has your momma taught you about sexuality yet”. I shook my head, frightened by the stranger. My mother tugged at my arm hard, and said to the man “She’s really too young to be hearing about all this, we must be going” but the man insisted, and seemed to frighten my mother so she backed away.

 “Now look here little girl, all I’m gonna tell you is that the only love that’s acceptable here, in this country, and by God, is a man loving a women, and a women loving a man, you got that?” he said closer to my face than before

“Well sir, why?”

“Because the Bible says so, don’t question it”

“But sir the Bible says love everyone, so I can’t love my mama because she a girl?”

“Well uh, no not exactly like that..”

“Well then what exactly sir, because my church say that God love and accept everyone, and my church say that lovin’ everyone is okay sir”

“Well, uh, well..”

By then a large crowd of people gathered around, women, children, grown men. All of them intrigued by the man and I’s conversation. As the man ran out of things to say ,people began to clap, and I never understood why for a very long time. My mother and I walked away that day, and I didn’t understand that I had put this protestor at a loss for words. I was too young to understand, but those people around me they clapped, and that man, well he shut up. In all honesty, this story was repressed somewhere in my head until two years ago, at my uncles wedding. It was the first gay wedding in my town, no one seemed to oppose it. My family was excited for my uncle and his husband, and the rest of my small town seemed to be too. When my mom stood up to make her toast, she didn’t praise my uncle’s like most of the other guest. Until she told this story, and both of my uncles were at a loss for words. As for the man I argued with that day, in front of the old church, well he’s now happily married to my uncle Jimmy.

Dark Shades

Triolet

You are young; you have your whole life ahead of you

Go out with your friends; dance all night long

Date that boy you like; tell your mother to make due

You are young; you have your whole life ahead of you

Make mistakes; don’t regret them

Buy that lipstick you like; why not get two

You are young; you have your whole life ahead of you

Don’t waste it; make it count

Dramatic Monologue

Dramatic monologue

When your eyes brighten

And your heart drops, whenever you see them

That’s when you know

When the world seems to come together

And the stars seem to all shine brighter, even on a cloudy night

That’s when you know

When you don’t even hear your phone buzzing

And you forget about your essay, despite that its due tomorrow

That’s when you know

When the sun hits the water

And their eyes still shine brighter, brighter than everything

That’s when you know

When the words slip off your tongue

And faintly drift into their ear, almost silently

Make sure you know

Revised

When your eyes brighten

And your heart drops

That’s when you know

When the world seems to come together

And the stars seem to all shine brighter

That’s when you know

When you don’t even hear your phone buzzing

And you forget about your essay

That’s when you know

When the sun hits the water

And their eyes still shine brighter

That’s when you know

When the words slip off your tongue

And faintly drift into their ear

Make sure you know

Lament

Lament

I saw her at prom

Her eyes were dancing as much as she was

And her dress cascaded behind her

She was lively; her youthful smile couldn’t be forgotten

I wish I could see that smile again

I saw her at the party

Her eyes drooped low

And she stumbled down the hall

She clutched the wall, frail

I wish I helped her

I saw her get into her car

Her eyes looked at mine

And she struggled to get her keys in the ignition

She drove away, perilously

I wish I checked on her

I saw the funeral

Her eyes were shut

And her body was mangled

She was cold, absent

I wish I stopped her

Two Tones of Mario Kart

                                              Love

As I place the Wii remote into its proper steering wheel, excitement overthrows me.  I choose Mario, because well lets face it Mario is the best option there is. Rainbow Road is my course of action; the colors enhance me. Off to a good start, I was in second but I collected a star and ended up zooming right past Bowser. The music in the background motivates me even more, the great Super Mario Brothers track, sent down from the heavens. I’m now in fourth place, but I throw a shell and it hits Princess Peach, leading me to second. One more track  run to go, and I’m still in second. What is that I see? It is a lovely giant mushroom; success. As I receive the power up I crush Luigi and reach the finish line. Success; god I love this game.

                                                                  Hate

3..2..1..GO! Why is my button not working? Dear god why won’t I move? Finally I’m moving, and trailing behind in last place. Thank god yes; I’m about to pass Luigi. Wait, who threw that shell?! Are you kidding me? Whoever threw that shell isn’t going to wake up tomorrow, I swear to god. Wait, I’m in fourth place? There’s no way, no way right now. Oh my god no, I’ve been looking at the wrong screen this whole entire time are you kidding me? Okay maybe if I get that mushroom power up I can win! No way, did Bowser really just take that power up from me. Well at least I am not in last place..is this a joke? Princess Peach just threw a banana peel at me and went in front of me. I’ve saved her from Bowsers castle what; thirty times? Maybe more? Does she really have the audacity to throw a banana peel at me? Well this is almost over and I’m in last, I hate this damn game.

Distillation

In the passage I read today the author is explaining that the practices involved in science are grotesque and feeble minded because of the “nasty” experiments that take place. The author supports his claims using imagery by giving examples including cutting spiders and frogs into “tiny pieces” and explaining how they do nothing for society compared to the working class. The passage not only explains how inhuman the practice is  but also that it is simple minded work that anyone can do and contributes nothing to society as a whole. The author’s use of diction provides a clear understanding of his feelings towards the scientists, and hyperbole by exaggerating the deeds which were expressed. This passage reveals the authors disgust with scientists and the experiments they conduct, as well as the importance of the blue collared working class and their “need to work”.

200 Words

Often times when I am at school, I expect to be learning something new and expanding my brain capacity, I hope to be flourishing in this environment created for this, instead my brain is scrambled between the letters scribbled up on the board and the thoughts racing in my own mind,-school, work, family, friends,- I am indifferent to the topic being presented, useless, just useless it seems,- I question whether I will ever need to know a unit circle when cooking my future kids dinner, or if I will absolutely need to know the square root of six when applying for jobs, or when I’m doing my taxes,- I doubt this, and soon I find myself in a flurry of anger rather than craving knowledge, we do not need what we are being taught,- we need to know how to cook, clean, and do our taxes not how to evaluate an expression or express chemical formulas,- yes school is important, but the real knowledge lies in experience and life, not conforming to the teachers idea of a model student that can just pass a test, memorization is now valued over wisdom and experience, and that scrambles my brain. 

Exasperated Ex-Belieber

Dear JB,

I am addressing you about my previous affiliations with you and you’re so called fandom. My middle school, and part of my high school career were filled with a lot of confusion and temporary insanity due to you and your ways; many call it Bieber fever. It may have begun in sixth grade, when I saw you on YouTube, it may have been the hair or the angelic voice of an eleven year old girl. I’m not sure what caused me, and millions of other young girls to fall for your ways, maybe you hypnotized us. After I discovered you, I believe; or belieb, I had caught this so called Bieber fever. I hung up posters, six hundred and eight to be exact. I would wait outside Target at midnight waiting for your new album releases. I believe over time the fever got worse, as I met more beliebers I increasingly loved you more and more. I created a twitter account dedicated to you, and spend all of my money on merch. Shirts, tickets, books, CD’s the whole deal. Why would you release all of these objects? To make us more sick? It is inhumane. Whenever you were on TV I had to stop everything I was doing and go straight to the television, I would usually start crying too. Don’t even get my started on the concerts. The concerts not only made me literally vomit from excitement, but they sucked my family dry from money. I believe you owe me at least a college fund, and a half from all of the money I have spent on you. Nothing is worse than the twitter account. See I had my own personal twitter; for my friends from school, but because of you I had to make a separate one for you and my belieber friends. All of the beliebers had an account, I felt obligated to do so aswell. I used the username @PreachBiebs and made it almost impossible for anyone from school to find. After almost a year of tweeting pictures of you and embarrassing fan fiction, a boy who goes by the name of Kevin Okeefe found my twitter account, and decided to present it to the whole school. Not only was in sick, very sick with Bieber fever but the whole school knew it, even more than before. I blame you for this, all of this. It may have been the hair that swooped to the left so elegantly. It may have been the way your jeans were way too tight for your five foot body. It may have been the way you wink, while simultaneously looking like every insane twelve year old girls dream. I deserve a compensation for my sickness, and loss of money due to you. I have since recovered from the fever of you Mr.Bieber, but I suffered strongly. I am asking you simply to reimburse me in some way, I will accept money and or meet and greet tickets.

Yours truly, An Ex Belieber..maybe.

The Bruise

The Bruise appeared when I was six. It nestled itself in the middle of my spine, the deep purple color made it not a bruise but The Bruise. It lasted for two months before my mom got worried about the ugly purple bruise, by that time I had many smaller blue bruises trickling down my spine, but I could only stare at The Bruise. When I went to the doctor, they were worried about the bruise. They said it wasn’t from tripping on the playground or falling off the swings, they said I needed tests done because of The Bruise. I sat in the large, metallic machine. it looked like a space ship and made noises about as loud as one too. The machine jolted and turned around my small fragile body and then the doctors discussed. They sat around a large meeting table with us, my parents sat at the end and me at a small chair with some crayons. I don’t remember much of what they said, I remember looking up to see my parents crying and hugging each other. My parents came over to me and I don’t remember much of what they said either, besides the word Brain Cancer that was forever burned into my brain after this day. I didn’t know much about cancer but I knew it was bad. The next few months were motionless thanks to the bruise, the chemo destroyed me and the cancer took over. I lay motionless day and night; only getting up to throw up or use the bathroom; if I was lucky enough to make it. My eyes sunk to the back of my head, and my hair fell out in large chunks until I finally told them just to shave it. Somehow these weren’t the things that made me ashamed of what I now was, it was The Bruise. The Bruise began an array of painful and horrendous physical changes, among many more mental challenges. The Bruise which took my childhood away from me and bankrupt my parents into not having another child. The Bruise that caused me to watch my parents hover over me everyday, whispering and softly sobbing as I drifted in and out. Two years later when I was eight, they said it was finally working. My hair grew back in chunks, I almost had a comb-able head of hair. My body became more than a sack of bones, I could move again. Everyday the bruise got smaller, everyday the bruise meant less to me. I am myself again, and the bruise is no one again.

Too Tired To Write

The wind crashes against my window with an almost peaceful sound, as the trees creak in the background. My eyes sit heavy upon my face as my fingers scan the keyboard for just the right words for this essay. I wish for nothing more than to stare at my eyelids for hours upon end, as the NyQuil I took is begging me to do. It pleads with my brain which is pushing me to finish my essay, sadly my brain wins again. The soft clicking of my fingers on the keyboard almost sounds like a lullaby as I continue on. I know if I wrap myself in my plush comforter my body will slowly paralyze, yet I do so anyway. The clicking slows down, and the words become shorter. My head sways to the side as I lose the will to stay awake any longer. I wish nothing but to get lost in nothingness for the next six hours, maybe seven if I don’t brush my hair, and just like that.. my essay was never finished.

Dead Flowers

                                                                        

She’s been living here since she was young, probably two or three. She had long brown hair and freckles that speckled her face rounded face. Her eyes were bright blue and her eyelashes cast shadows over her cheeks. When they came and choose her to stay in the room in which I hung I was ecstatic, there wasn’t much company for me when I just hung in the old storage room. I now had a purpose, I swung around when it was hot out and I light up the room when it’s dark so she can read despite how late it is. She has always stayed in here as a comfort, even when she was young.

“Go to your room NOW.” the angry man would boom at her.

“But daddy, I didn’t mean to” her high pitched voice would plead, despite her knowledge of the angry man’s stubbornness.

Then his voice would rise, and I’d hear a few quick smacks and possibly a crash until she came running into the room where I hang. She would weep and weep in her pillow for hours, I think he’s the reason she began staying in here for longer periods of time. When she was five her sister was born, and she loved her sister very much, her mom disappeared a few weeks later leaving the two girls with the angry man. When the angry man’s voice would boom too hard she would run in here with her sister. With all of her might she would push the table against the door, and as the angry man slammed on the door she would get down beside her bed clasp her hands together and pray.

 She was seven when her sister began to give her the flowers. Her sister would go outside whenever she was weeping and pick her flowers, dandelions, tulips, anything she could find. She hung the flowers on me, intertwining them into a wreath like structure. Soon instead of weeping she would lay down on her bed, and stare up at me and the flowers as if it was the night sky. Despite how dead the flowers were she saw them as beautiful. Whenever the drunken angry man threw a fit her and her sister would just stare at the dead flowers.

“I’m happy I picked these for you when I was little” whispered the sister.

“I’m happy you picked them for me too. I like them” she smiled at her sister.

They then lay silent for a long time and watched as the dead flowers swung around and around along with me. As she grew older she spent more time in the room. She sat down at the table; the same one she pushes against the door and read. She would be gone all day at school, and come back with an almost translucent expression crossing her face. Sometimes her sister would open the door to try and talk to her.

“Did they make fun of you again today?” her sister would whisper quietly.

“No, I don’t know. Please leave” was her response every time.

She would sit and read, sometimes write all night long. Most of the time she would fall asleep at that table, the table was a comfort to her. Sometimes she would lay on her bed and stare up at the brown flowers again. Despite her reluctance towards her sister, she would still bring her new flowers every week and string them along with the other ones. Her sister was worried about her, she wasn’t coming out of her the room. One day as she was laying in her bed staring at the flowers, her sister came in and laid down next to her.

“I have more flowers for you, I’m not sure if you still like me but I know you like these damn flowers”

“It isn’t that I don’t like you” she said as the gingerly strung the flowers.

“Then what is it? Is it because you’re a teenager now? I’m almost a teenager too you know I’m almost twelve”

“It isn’t that. It isn’t you. I’m sorry” she said while still beaming straight up at me.

“What is it, please tell me I’m scared for you. I know what you’re doing, and I don’t want to tell dad”

“Don’t tell dad. I don’t do it to make a statement or anything. I only wear long sleeves how did you even see? I’m just not happy okay.”

“I won’t tell dad because I know what he’ll do, but you need to stop you’re going to end up hurting yourself”

“Isn’t that the point?” she turned to her and whispered.

“I know but please..”

“Okay stop forget it please. The flowers are still beautiful you know. Despite being torn from the ground and tied up. They swing around and around on that old ceiling fan. They’re brown but they’re still beautiful. Those flowers look free hanging up there don’t they?”

“Uh I know they are, that’s why I picked them for you” her sister said, confused.

She kissed her sister on the head and whispered “I love you okay? Everything will be fine. Now get out of here, I have to do my homework”

“I love you too” her sister said in a raspy voice. Her sister stood up and left hesitantly, and looked back at her sister. Her sister tossed a single dandelion onto her bed and then shut the door.

She pushed herself up, and hung the dandelion among with the other dead flowers. She pushed her table against the door, except her father wasn’t yelling this time. She sat down at the table and scribbled down something quickly. Slowly she walked over and picked up a long scarf and hung it onto me, making a knot. Reluctantly she stood against her bed, sobbing for a while until she took a big gulp of air. The room went completely silent. There was another dead, but beautiful flower hanging freely off of me. Once again, the room in which I hung was an empty storage room.

The Plot Sickens: Free Write and Prompt

 It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh field. I waited anxiously holding my hands together as I watched out the window at the airport on this foggy evening. I had butterflies in my stomach that trickled up to my throat and consumed my whole body. The kids were too young to understand at the time what was happening, they were toddlers and all they knew was that they missed their father. I looked over at them, both blonde and full of life. Their rose colored cheeks and tooth missing smiles could make anyone smile.  They watched as the planes landed and the luggage on the carousel swung around and around. We were there two hours early, which was probably a bad idea with two three year old's but I could not contain my excitement, and I knew once they saw him they would not be able to either. He’s been gone for almost a year now, three hundred and twenty two days and five hours to be exact and now it was down to only hours. Two hours passed of sitting and waiting until the screen showed that his flight had arrived. I leaned down, gathered the kids and said “daddy’s home for Christmas guys, he’s finally home”. They both looked at me with wide eyes and ran to the stairs where he would be coming down. I looked cautiously at the stairs and studied everybody’s face thoroughly, until I saw him..

My prompt deviates the author of The Plot Sickens, Fanny Howe's ideas on young writers and her studies as a teacher. Fanny gave her students the same free write prompt that I received, and all but five of her student's stories consisted of tragic endings, blood, and gore. My prompt ended quite differently, although the ending is not fully completed, it is clear that the husband returns home. On the contrary, my story did contain some traces of violence, considering the husband is returning home from war which is an extremely violent event. Although my story was not as graphic as some of her students, who she says wrote about "were wired to electrodes, burned alive, blown up on their way to baggage claim, dragged of by the police for smuggling cocaine, and so on." it still contained traces of violence. There is no doubt in my mind that many of my peer's stories contained violence, most likely more graphic than mine. Therefore I believe my story did not fully follow the author's ideas of the tendencies of young writers, however offered a violent background story that is not told so it does relate to the authors ideas.

Self Deprecation

My friend say I worry too much, they tell me to just stop worrying. This is true, blatantly true I worry much more than the average sixteen year old girl should. Anyways the women who I dreaded going to see every Thursday; Carol I believe, suggested being put on medication for my worrying which she liked to call anxiety for some reason; I mean come on worrying every second of every day is normal, am I right? What are the side effects? Really? I could die from this? Hell no, double that hell no. Never the less I decided that medication would cramp my style. Also Carol was kind of cramping my style as well, the looks she gave me concerned me on those late Thursday evenings where I almost counted the times the clock ticked until I could leave. Why is she looking at me like that? Don’t look at me please, I look like a sloth today. I want a pet sloth. What if I died thoug? I would be so sad oh gosh the poor sloth. Therefore my Thursday evenings with Carol came to an end after some persuading of my mother. Now this question may cross your mind, why don’t I just stop worrying? Well you see if I could don’t you think I would? It isn’t like I enjoy almost passing out when I ask someone a question or I like how I ponder everything and anything until all hours of the night, it isn’t quite a choice. Well about what do you worry about, you may ask me. The answer to that question is simple, I worry about anything and everything. I worry about my pets, my family, my hair, I worry about pizza; something as simple as pizza. Oh god I’m having pizza for dinner do I want cheese or Hawaiian. This is the hardest decision I’ve ever made in my entire life. Sorry about that; anyways I will start you off with a simple school day. Walking to my first period class I walk past someone, I’ve never spoken to them before and they smile at me. From the outside it just looks like I smiled back but what is going on inside my head is a completely different story. Oh god oh god they’re smiling at me. What do I do? I obviously smile back what’s wrong with you. Okay alright play it cool, ready set smile. Crap that was such a weird smile. Oh god they think I’m some type of wild animal after that. This happens about four to five times a day in school. Or when I can’t find anyone I know at lunch right away, that’s always a fun time. Jesus Christ where the hell are they. We always sit right there where are they dear lord. Please hurry. Oh god are people looking at me they so are looking at me. Act cool act cool dear god act cool. Is that them please be them. Thank god it is them. Once I can function like a normal human being again and my face fades back to its normal ghostly tone I walk on over, and everything is fine. Quandaries such as this are a mundane thing to me, I’m used to it. I think nothing of it until I really start pondering it in depth. Oh god do other people notice. I hope they don’t. Well anyways that’s how school goes, and it really isn’t too bad, the only real issue begins once I get home and in bed. Around 9 o’clock I will climb in my bed. Oh god did I feed the cat? What about the dog? Crap. The cat must be wondering if I love him because I haven’t fed him yet. I do love Henry, I must feed him to show him. Until I get up this thought will be the only thing that’s on my mind, so I’ll get up and feed them probably for the third time that day just to make sure. Mine as well check to see if all of the candles are blown out, I don’t want to die tonight. Oh god what if I died. Where do you go when you die? What does dying feel like? Oh my god do you become a ghost when you die? After roaming my house for an hour checking to see if every possible thing to stop me from dying has been done and running up the stairs at full speed from ghosts that most likely are non-existent in my house I will finally crawl back into bed. So do you think your kids will like you? What if they hate you? Hannah you’re 16 why are you worrying if your kids will like you considering you won’t have children for a super long time…hopefully. Chill out Hannah oh my god you have school in the morning. School in the morning, oh crap better see if your alarm is set. See I am aware that my alarm has been set for every weekday, however if I don’t double, no triple, actually let’s just say quadruple check it I will be worried that it won’t go off. So I check that, and then I get a text. It reads “hey” and it’s from none other than a cute very cute boy. What? No really what? Am I on Punk’d right now? Is this a joke? What kind of sick joke is this, a cute boy texting me? Does he have the wrong Hannah? Is he sick in the head? Dear god do I answer? What do I even say?! Holy crap. See me and this said boy have most likely texted a hundred times before, and it seems almost out of the question that he would be playing some type of prank considering the numerous conversations we have had before, yet me being me must question all possible outcomes of this text that reads “hey”. I must over analyze, I must overthink. As the gears in my head turn for hours upon end eventually they will give up and I will pass out until the next morning. I wake up at five thirty in a panic thinking it might be seven and my alarm which I quadruple checked had maybe failed. To my own surprise it had not failed, and I do my normal morning routine of getting ready. I go to school and I tell my friends about the cute boy that had texted me the previous evening and how I think he may just be pulling my leg. “Hannah why do you worry so much? I’m sure he just likes you”. Well I mean there’s probably nothing to worry about, but..