I always love it when students surprise me with an approach to an assignment that I didn't anticipate. When we wrote poems inspired by Linda Gregg's 2005 poem, "Whomever" I assumed most people would write about a person in their life. Marc chose to write about an animal.
The Lonely Stranger
You are not even human, except to your owner maybe.
I saw you again as I walked across the bridge.
You were lying down in your capacious cage.
Outside in the cold, all alone, dressed in black fur.
I bet you are warmer than I.
With the time passing by and the sky turning to black, I am hoping you will go inside, for it is also getting colder.
I’m glad you have someone to care for you, because others do not.
I think there is a kindness in you, although I am told to stay away,
Like the way bullies act tough to hide what they are really feeling inside.
Other times I think you are tough,
The way you sit up in alert as my footsteps pound against the wooden bridge.
Always it is a joy to see you, until a man takes you inside
leaving your cage alone and cold in the night.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Who Says You Can't Write Happy Poetry?
Whoever said the best poetry has to be sad has obviously never heard from these two poets before.
The poem "What Is Caring?" by Jess is inspired by the poem "What Is Success?" by Ralph Waldo Emerson. Her poem makes us all think about how we can show compassion and concern for our fellow human beings.
The poem "Love" by Samantha uses a series of metaphors to write about an emotion that is oft addressed in poetry. The imagery is classic, but the word choice is fresh. See if you can spot Miss Ambrosini's favorite Super 70 word inside of this poem!
What is Caring? To give a kind word to someone who is lacking confidence To be willing to give your life for someone who is losing theirs To make people believe dreams come true To bestow your heart to someone in pain To elevate one’s spirit when they’re finally giving up To embrace someone’s hand when they're frightened of the future To show a soul you will always be by their side To show love to somebody who is fighting for their life To open one's path when another is closing To guide someone’s footsteps when they don’t know where to turn To make a friend simply laugh when they shed one tear To reach out to someone who is in need of a companion To stride beside a friend for years and years to come And to live happily knowing you put a smile upon someone’s face This is to care. | |
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Thursday, October 15, 2009
Returning At Last
Well, we're back for another year with a whole new crop of writers to showcase. I thought I'd begin the year with this post, which my Advanced English class wrote collaboratively (and yes, that is a vocab word!) Our goal was to "explode a moment," bringing it to life in full color, clarity, and a hint of slow motion. Enjoy!
The salty smell tempts me. As I raise it closer and closer to my mouth, another idea comes to mind. I glare across the cafeteria at my nemesis, Ryan . The memory of my face covered in ketchup burns in my mind, and suddenly I realize, I have to do it. I wind up my arm like Cliff Lee in the big game. The greasy heat of the fry between my fingers urges me on. My arm launches through the air in a dramatic arc. I release the weapon. It sails through the air, zinging like a stealth bomber, tumbling like an acrobat, and finally unleashing its greasy load right between his eyes.
Disclaimer: Scribbles and Bits in no way advocates throwing food in the cafeteria.
The salty smell tempts me. As I raise it closer and closer to my mouth, another idea comes to mind. I glare across the cafeteria at my nemesis, Ryan . The memory of my face covered in ketchup burns in my mind, and suddenly I realize, I have to do it. I wind up my arm like Cliff Lee in the big game. The greasy heat of the fry between my fingers urges me on. My arm launches through the air in a dramatic arc. I release the weapon. It sails through the air, zinging like a stealth bomber, tumbling like an acrobat, and finally unleashing its greasy load right between his eyes.
Disclaimer: Scribbles and Bits in no way advocates throwing food in the cafeteria.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Headline Poems
Earlier this year, I awarded "Vogie" awards for the documentary "Things Not Seen" films that most impressed me and my classes. Since these awards are only for film, I guess I can't bestow a Vogie upon these poems, but I can say that according to a vote taken in my eighth period class, these were the three best headline poems from the team.
The inspiration came first from clipping words related to Twelve Angry Men, followed by a second step of clipping words with intriguing qualities either of sound or meaning. Then by creative arrangement of these words, we arrived at these poems. Enjoy! They are by Allie, Sarah, Madison, Luke, and Spencer.
Friday, April 3, 2009
An Intriguing Interpretation of Twelve Angry Men
This piece, by Tim, helped me look at a piece of literature in a new way. Reading it was one of those great moments in teaching when a student reveals that even though I've read something a million times (OK, that's a slight hyperbole) there is still more to mine. I'm not sure if this is what the author of the play intended, but it sure explains the moral complexities of this play.
The theme, “sometimes we are too quick to judge” is an excellent theme that resurfaces many times in the story Twelve Angry Men. Many characters such as Number Eight are too quick to judge someone. For example, Number Eight says, “He is only nineteen years old!”(14). That shows that Number Eight is judging to boy to be innocent because of his age. The boy might not be innocent which shows that Number Eight is too quick to judge. He also States, “Ever since he was five years old his father beat him regularly with his fists”(21). That shows that Number Eight is judging the boy on what has happened in the past but not in the present.
Typically, we look at all of the other jurors being too quick to judge, but even these two examples show that maybe the hero of our story, Number Eight, is just as guilty.
The theme, “sometimes we are too quick to judge” is an excellent theme that resurfaces many times in the story Twelve Angry Men. Many characters such as Number Eight are too quick to judge someone. For example, Number Eight says, “He is only nineteen years old!”(14). That shows that Number Eight is judging to boy to be innocent because of his age. The boy might not be innocent which shows that Number Eight is too quick to judge. He also States, “Ever since he was five years old his father beat him regularly with his fists”(21). That shows that Number Eight is judging the boy on what has happened in the past but not in the present.
Typically, we look at all of the other jurors being too quick to judge, but even these two examples show that maybe the hero of our story, Number Eight, is just as guilty.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Talk About a Grabber!
This piece, by Naiya, was written in the style of famed author Robert Cormier after our class read I Am the Cheese. I must say, Naiya brings her own signature style Cormier's techniques and establishes an enticing grabber for her story. I wonder if even she knows where it's headed?
Stuck in a Maze
I back out of the parking lot, sweat covering my forehead and my mind captivating me. No, no, no this is wrong, this can’t be true. Seconds from now, my alarm going to start ringing, and my sister is going to barge into the room with her mouth stuffed with food. The lovely aroma of mom’s pancakes will fill the house with warmth. This nightmare will end here and my normal life will resume. As I stand there, I realize that this is the truth, nothing is going to change. My sister will never again barge into my room. I will never be in my house where the smell of mom’s pancakes is a wake up call. If this is the truth, then what is it that got me here? Where is my family and why am I not with them? The wind blows my hair into my face and grey clouds are beginning to cluster in further. Lightning cracking and thunder booming.
“Pancakes, anyone,” my mom asks while flinging her hair, like she’s on America’s next top model.
“Oh, oh, me first, coming through,” my sister shouts coming from our attic with a donut in one hand and a picture in anther hand. Her black hair swinging side to side and her skirt ruffling.
“Claire!” I shout with an annoyed tone as she barges in and covers my brand new dress with the icing on her chocolate frosted donut. She looks at me first, with those wide, apologetic eyes, than she smirks.
“Hahahah.”
“What is so darn funny about my dress being covered with frosting?” a bit frustrated at her derisive sense of humor. “This was new; I brought it because today was picture day and you just ruined it.”
“Hey mom, you know how you were telling me that I need to grow environmentally-friendly?” Claire shouts over the blaring news my dad’s watching. “Well, I just started by saving a napkin.”
“That’s really nice, sweetheart,” says mom, obviously not paying any attention to Claire’s blabbering.
But I am not paying attention to what she is blabbering either; my eyes are locked on her hands, where she is holding a picture tightly as if she is protecting it from some evil shadow. From the gaps between her fingers, I see a face, identical to mine, wearing a pink top, with an arm around another face, buried deep under my sister’s fingers. “Claire, whose picture is that, let me see?”
“You, silly goose!” she screams into my ear, while placing the picture on the dining table. Then running off to get herself another donut.
I pick up the picture, staring at it closely. Flipping it over and viewing every corner of it carefully. The girl in the picture who looked about my age, with the same facial features as me, had her arm around a woman whose face looked like my mother’s ten years ago. But the girl in that picture wasn’t me, and I knew that for a fact. But who was it?
“Naiya! Bus!” my mom screeches at the top of her lungs.
“Coming.” I shout back. Curiosity burns within me, but I stuff the picture into my bag, and race to catch the bus.
I hold onto the tree branch for support. This place is driving me crazy, I can’t stay here. My instincts are telling me to turn around and run, away from all this darkness and misery. To tear away from all my tears and grudges with life. I can leave, I will leave, I will. The voice inside my head is telling me to leave, that I deserve a better life. But my feet refuse to move even an inch. My head is screaming, spinning me back and forth along with the wind like a mad woman. I struggle to stay up with only the branch to hold onto.
Boom! Struggling, I turn on my heels, only to see the one thing in the world that I hate the most, him. There he is with that cruel smile and a face that says I found you and prepare for death. My head is throbbing with pain as if someone banging a hammer on it. I close my eyes and wait for the pain in my stomach to come and captivate me. Come on, shoot, I beg in my head, wanting the pain of life to die with my body. That this soul goes to heaven and this body burns all the pain with it. I wait with joy for the pain to come and take me away from this hell.
Then it comes, with its fierceness, and pierces my stomach. Burning and stinging takes the place of my previous passion for death. Slowly my hands loosen the grip on the branch and let go, giving me only the air to hold onto. My body slamming to the ground with a crashing affect.
All through chemistry, I burn within myself and barely resist the temptation to reach into my back pocket and pull out that picture with the familiar eyes and faces. Finally, the bell rings and I rush to get out of the class, excited to go home and take a close look at the picture.
I rush into the house, not even bothering to close the door and dash into my room. Reaching into the back pocket of my jeans, I pull out the picture. I examine every part of the picture. My mind is bombarded with questions like, who is this girl that looks identical to me? Who is the other lady that looks so much like my mother? Why do I not know this person? Is my family hiding something from me? I feel a hand lightly touch my shoulder.
“What are you looking at?” she inquires, like any nosy mother would.
My heart races, and the panic in my voice is noticeably, “Nothing mom.” But as my hand comes down to prevent her from seeing the picture, she catches my hand and raises it up to see what I am panicking about. The panic in my voice appears on mom’s face. She gasps and I can hear her heart beating fast.
“Mom, this person in the picture isn’t me and I know that, but she looks exactly like me, like a twin sister or…” I don’t finish my sentence, expecting my mom to answer my question.
“Look Emmy, it’s a bit complicated, can I explain it later?”
“No,” I say, raising my voice over mom’s. “I want to know now, I should have already known this stuff, now that I find evidence of some sort of secret you’re keeping, all you have to say is, it’s complicated can we talk about it later.” Anger rages inside of me. I stare into my mom’s brown eyes with fury. Her tiny face looks tired and she sits there listening silently to all my accusations.
“Emmy, not a twin sister, a….”
“What mom, you held it back for so many years; blurt it out now at least, to make up for some of this deception.”
“An older sister” she states unwillingly.
For once in my life, I’m speechless. I swallow a lump in my throat, feeling nauseous. I tried to imagine having another sister besides Claire, another sister in the family photos hanging downstairs, another sister to share a room with, an older sister. I couldn’t imagine one. “Where is she now?” I ask, not wanting to know.
“Emmy, sweetheart, she was…..” struggling to finish her sentence.
“Mom,” I say calming, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I need to know.”
“Emmy, I don’t know, she just disappeared, about ten years ago, no note or anything, she could have ran away, or maybe kidnapped…..”
“You didn’t try to look for her?” I asked taken aback.
“We did what we could by ourselves; we couldn’t involve the police because of your dad’s illegal businesses and…….” she paused knowing she let a secret out. “Sweetheart, your dad isn’t what you think he is.”
“Isn’t he a businessman, with many people working under him?”
“He’s a businessman but an…………”
Stuck in a Maze
I back out of the parking lot, sweat covering my forehead and my mind captivating me. No, no, no this is wrong, this can’t be true. Seconds from now, my alarm going to start ringing, and my sister is going to barge into the room with her mouth stuffed with food. The lovely aroma of mom’s pancakes will fill the house with warmth. This nightmare will end here and my normal life will resume. As I stand there, I realize that this is the truth, nothing is going to change. My sister will never again barge into my room. I will never be in my house where the smell of mom’s pancakes is a wake up call. If this is the truth, then what is it that got me here? Where is my family and why am I not with them? The wind blows my hair into my face and grey clouds are beginning to cluster in further. Lightning cracking and thunder booming.
“Pancakes, anyone,” my mom asks while flinging her hair, like she’s on America’s next top model.
“Oh, oh, me first, coming through,” my sister shouts coming from our attic with a donut in one hand and a picture in anther hand. Her black hair swinging side to side and her skirt ruffling.
“Claire!” I shout with an annoyed tone as she barges in and covers my brand new dress with the icing on her chocolate frosted donut. She looks at me first, with those wide, apologetic eyes, than she smirks.
“Hahahah.”
“What is so darn funny about my dress being covered with frosting?” a bit frustrated at her derisive sense of humor. “This was new; I brought it because today was picture day and you just ruined it.”
“Hey mom, you know how you were telling me that I need to grow environmentally-friendly?” Claire shouts over the blaring news my dad’s watching. “Well, I just started by saving a napkin.”
“That’s really nice, sweetheart,” says mom, obviously not paying any attention to Claire’s blabbering.
But I am not paying attention to what she is blabbering either; my eyes are locked on her hands, where she is holding a picture tightly as if she is protecting it from some evil shadow. From the gaps between her fingers, I see a face, identical to mine, wearing a pink top, with an arm around another face, buried deep under my sister’s fingers. “Claire, whose picture is that, let me see?”
“You, silly goose!” she screams into my ear, while placing the picture on the dining table. Then running off to get herself another donut.
I pick up the picture, staring at it closely. Flipping it over and viewing every corner of it carefully. The girl in the picture who looked about my age, with the same facial features as me, had her arm around a woman whose face looked like my mother’s ten years ago. But the girl in that picture wasn’t me, and I knew that for a fact. But who was it?
“Naiya! Bus!” my mom screeches at the top of her lungs.
“Coming.” I shout back. Curiosity burns within me, but I stuff the picture into my bag, and race to catch the bus.
I hold onto the tree branch for support. This place is driving me crazy, I can’t stay here. My instincts are telling me to turn around and run, away from all this darkness and misery. To tear away from all my tears and grudges with life. I can leave, I will leave, I will. The voice inside my head is telling me to leave, that I deserve a better life. But my feet refuse to move even an inch. My head is screaming, spinning me back and forth along with the wind like a mad woman. I struggle to stay up with only the branch to hold onto.
Boom! Struggling, I turn on my heels, only to see the one thing in the world that I hate the most, him. There he is with that cruel smile and a face that says I found you and prepare for death. My head is throbbing with pain as if someone banging a hammer on it. I close my eyes and wait for the pain in my stomach to come and captivate me. Come on, shoot, I beg in my head, wanting the pain of life to die with my body. That this soul goes to heaven and this body burns all the pain with it. I wait with joy for the pain to come and take me away from this hell.
Then it comes, with its fierceness, and pierces my stomach. Burning and stinging takes the place of my previous passion for death. Slowly my hands loosen the grip on the branch and let go, giving me only the air to hold onto. My body slamming to the ground with a crashing affect.
All through chemistry, I burn within myself and barely resist the temptation to reach into my back pocket and pull out that picture with the familiar eyes and faces. Finally, the bell rings and I rush to get out of the class, excited to go home and take a close look at the picture.
I rush into the house, not even bothering to close the door and dash into my room. Reaching into the back pocket of my jeans, I pull out the picture. I examine every part of the picture. My mind is bombarded with questions like, who is this girl that looks identical to me? Who is the other lady that looks so much like my mother? Why do I not know this person? Is my family hiding something from me? I feel a hand lightly touch my shoulder.
“What are you looking at?” she inquires, like any nosy mother would.
My heart races, and the panic in my voice is noticeably, “Nothing mom.” But as my hand comes down to prevent her from seeing the picture, she catches my hand and raises it up to see what I am panicking about. The panic in my voice appears on mom’s face. She gasps and I can hear her heart beating fast.
“Mom, this person in the picture isn’t me and I know that, but she looks exactly like me, like a twin sister or…” I don’t finish my sentence, expecting my mom to answer my question.
“Look Emmy, it’s a bit complicated, can I explain it later?”
“No,” I say, raising my voice over mom’s. “I want to know now, I should have already known this stuff, now that I find evidence of some sort of secret you’re keeping, all you have to say is, it’s complicated can we talk about it later.” Anger rages inside of me. I stare into my mom’s brown eyes with fury. Her tiny face looks tired and she sits there listening silently to all my accusations.
“Emmy, not a twin sister, a….”
“What mom, you held it back for so many years; blurt it out now at least, to make up for some of this deception.”
“An older sister” she states unwillingly.
For once in my life, I’m speechless. I swallow a lump in my throat, feeling nauseous. I tried to imagine having another sister besides Claire, another sister in the family photos hanging downstairs, another sister to share a room with, an older sister. I couldn’t imagine one. “Where is she now?” I ask, not wanting to know.
“Emmy, sweetheart, she was…..” struggling to finish her sentence.
“Mom,” I say calming, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I need to know.”
“Emmy, I don’t know, she just disappeared, about ten years ago, no note or anything, she could have ran away, or maybe kidnapped…..”
“You didn’t try to look for her?” I asked taken aback.
“We did what we could by ourselves; we couldn’t involve the police because of your dad’s illegal businesses and…….” she paused knowing she let a secret out. “Sweetheart, your dad isn’t what you think he is.”
“Isn’t he a businessman, with many people working under him?”
“He’s a businessman but an…………”
Thursday, January 15, 2009
imperfection
"imperfection" is the pen name, or pseudonym, that today's author has chosen for herself. She says it matches her choice to use no capitalization and unconventional grammar in today's piece. What creativity, though! This story is a romance with a twist of tragedy, yes of unrequited love -- maybe fans of Twilight will find it more "perfect" than the author feels it is!
she'd followed him into his classroom one day, even though they weren't in the same class. she was something whimsical--part human, and part something unconventional. she was something different, all right. not good, not bad, and not even anything in-between.
she had plopped down into the seat next to him, ignoring the protests of the person who was supposed to sit there, and didn't say a word.he asked, vacillatingly, if she was lost--if she was new and needed the teacher to show her where her classroom was.her chin was resting in a pen-tattoo-d hand as she stared at him, her gaze unwavering.he shifted and looked away, waiting for the teacher to come over and just take her awayawayaway.---
years later, when they were in middle school- the place of busted lockers and duct-taped binders, she asked him to the very first dance. (the most important one.)he had said no. she had been expecting it, been steeling her heart up for his most-likely answer, but she hadn't expected it to hurt this bad; it was bad to the point of her paper heart getting tiny crinkles near the edges, bad to the point of her stomach coiling and uncoiling like a snake in a trance, badbadbad."don't break," she whispered to her heart. "don'tbreakdon'tbreakdon'tbreak."
he pretended not to hear her.---for once, he was the one watching her as she did something unimportantly urgent. he stared at her pen-tatoo'd hands and her dyed hair (FAKEFAKFAKE) hair and her too-skinny (breakable) limbs, and her eyes that showed him that there was a fire in her that kept her going, rammed her through plastic dolls with plastic houses and strong winds and this ongoing (empty) world.he picked up his pencil and told himself no.---
they were running the mile. she had been the last person to finish, and when she did, she sank down into itchy blades of grass with the ants and worms and weeds and flowers, lungs rattling out like a steam engine. her barely-existant ankles looked as if they would shatter into a million pieces, but her eyes were gleaming and stronger than ever. "you have a long way to go," he told her.she looks up at him with her eyes the color of mirrors, and let out a laugh that sounded like dry leaves rustling to together in a breeze. "maybe," she said, "but at least i get to smell the roses."---
"do you think," she asks one day, out of the blue, "that maybe you could pretend that i was perfect?"he gives her one of his looks--the one that's half quizzical and half belittling--and rips her hands from his shoulders. (he watches the daisy petals fall from a naked stalk.)"i'm trying," she whispers. "i'm trying so hard, and i'm killing so many flowers, but they all say that you love me."he says nothing, and she laughs. "i guess flowers are just like pretty-faced people, then.)---a week later, she gets that dance. and for those three minutes, she can pretend that she is perfect, that flowers are actually pretty and smart, and she can feel that paper heart of hers being taped together.there's no music, and it's in the middle of nowhere but not really, just a few blocks down, under a dimming streetlight, but she doens't care. she doesn't notice that she's wearing torn jeans and a tattered shirt that's almost down to her knees, and not in a fancy dress and heels, or that he's staring at a point just beyond her head.she cries, and she tucks this little moment away into her book of memories.---
he's holding an expensive paintbrush and swirling to colors together. he's supposed to make something beautiful, something tragic.he paints her, with her mirror eyes and pen-tattoo'd hands, and her spindly limbs and that fire in her.he stares at the painting for hours before he finds his dad's lighter and sets it on fire.(burn.)she falls on the blacktop, right on the grafitti hopskotch squares. ---
"she's been malnourished," the doctor tells him. "we'll keep her on life support, and see if we can get her to gain weight."he barely nods before giving him a loose handshake. the doctor leaves, and he glares at her.(the pretty flowers always die early.)a little color drains from her lips.--the nurses whisper in hushed tones. "it's a pity," they sigh. "she would have been a beauty."he watches her knuckles turn white as her hands clench into tiny, bony fists.--
she's scheduled to die in two hours.he's giving her his last visit when he stops thinking. he grabs her and pulls her out of the bundle of tubes. she's set onto his back somewhat awkwardly, but it feels right--it feels perfect.(she would have loved to hear him say that.)and he runs.--they're at the school, and he tumbles down a hill and they land near the track-- the one where they ran the mile.she opens her eyes and sees his face, illuminated by the dim light of the sunrise. and suddenly, everything is perfect and pretty and beautiful--even the dirt on her face, and the grass stains on her hospital gown, and the worms and the weeds and the itchy blades of grass and her pen-tattoos.sunlight falls on her flower-face, and it feels like warm rain. "hello," she whispers. "hello, sun. hello, hello."
she'd followed him into his classroom one day, even though they weren't in the same class. she was something whimsical--part human, and part something unconventional. she was something different, all right. not good, not bad, and not even anything in-between.
she had plopped down into the seat next to him, ignoring the protests of the person who was supposed to sit there, and didn't say a word.he asked, vacillatingly, if she was lost--if she was new and needed the teacher to show her where her classroom was.her chin was resting in a pen-tattoo-d hand as she stared at him, her gaze unwavering.he shifted and looked away, waiting for the teacher to come over and just take her awayawayaway.---
years later, when they were in middle school- the place of busted lockers and duct-taped binders, she asked him to the very first dance. (the most important one.)he had said no. she had been expecting it, been steeling her heart up for his most-likely answer, but she hadn't expected it to hurt this bad; it was bad to the point of her paper heart getting tiny crinkles near the edges, bad to the point of her stomach coiling and uncoiling like a snake in a trance, badbadbad."don't break," she whispered to her heart. "don'tbreakdon'tbreakdon'tbreak."
he pretended not to hear her.---for once, he was the one watching her as she did something unimportantly urgent. he stared at her pen-tatoo'd hands and her dyed hair (FAKEFAKFAKE) hair and her too-skinny (breakable) limbs, and her eyes that showed him that there was a fire in her that kept her going, rammed her through plastic dolls with plastic houses and strong winds and this ongoing (empty) world.he picked up his pencil and told himself no.---
they were running the mile. she had been the last person to finish, and when she did, she sank down into itchy blades of grass with the ants and worms and weeds and flowers, lungs rattling out like a steam engine. her barely-existant ankles looked as if they would shatter into a million pieces, but her eyes were gleaming and stronger than ever. "you have a long way to go," he told her.she looks up at him with her eyes the color of mirrors, and let out a laugh that sounded like dry leaves rustling to together in a breeze. "maybe," she said, "but at least i get to smell the roses."---
"do you think," she asks one day, out of the blue, "that maybe you could pretend that i was perfect?"he gives her one of his looks--the one that's half quizzical and half belittling--and rips her hands from his shoulders. (he watches the daisy petals fall from a naked stalk.)"i'm trying," she whispers. "i'm trying so hard, and i'm killing so many flowers, but they all say that you love me."he says nothing, and she laughs. "i guess flowers are just like pretty-faced people, then.)---a week later, she gets that dance. and for those three minutes, she can pretend that she is perfect, that flowers are actually pretty and smart, and she can feel that paper heart of hers being taped together.there's no music, and it's in the middle of nowhere but not really, just a few blocks down, under a dimming streetlight, but she doens't care. she doesn't notice that she's wearing torn jeans and a tattered shirt that's almost down to her knees, and not in a fancy dress and heels, or that he's staring at a point just beyond her head.she cries, and she tucks this little moment away into her book of memories.---
he's holding an expensive paintbrush and swirling to colors together. he's supposed to make something beautiful, something tragic.he paints her, with her mirror eyes and pen-tattoo'd hands, and her spindly limbs and that fire in her.he stares at the painting for hours before he finds his dad's lighter and sets it on fire.(burn.)she falls on the blacktop, right on the grafitti hopskotch squares. ---
"she's been malnourished," the doctor tells him. "we'll keep her on life support, and see if we can get her to gain weight."he barely nods before giving him a loose handshake. the doctor leaves, and he glares at her.(the pretty flowers always die early.)a little color drains from her lips.--the nurses whisper in hushed tones. "it's a pity," they sigh. "she would have been a beauty."he watches her knuckles turn white as her hands clench into tiny, bony fists.--
she's scheduled to die in two hours.he's giving her his last visit when he stops thinking. he grabs her and pulls her out of the bundle of tubes. she's set onto his back somewhat awkwardly, but it feels right--it feels perfect.(she would have loved to hear him say that.)and he runs.--they're at the school, and he tumbles down a hill and they land near the track-- the one where they ran the mile.she opens her eyes and sees his face, illuminated by the dim light of the sunrise. and suddenly, everything is perfect and pretty and beautiful--even the dirt on her face, and the grass stains on her hospital gown, and the worms and the weeds and the itchy blades of grass and her pen-tattoos.sunlight falls on her flower-face, and it feels like warm rain. "hello," she whispers. "hello, sun. hello, hello."
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