Grass rustled gently in the breeze, looking comfortable and and inviting. I threw a blanket out, my back to the steady wind, the blanket unfolding its perfect geometry. The Maine summer sun lent me its warmth and its light, giving off that glow that lets you know everything is ok. And that day everything was better than ok; everything was beautiful. I closed my eyes and watched the tranquil, turquoise ocean wash along the beach, soaking under the round, fat sun. I rolled over, relaxed, rolled over, relaxed, time and time again. Some days are just like this.
We are young, and for tonight, we have no goals. A gentle sunburn shadows my skin, and I enjoy the life it brings to my face. Tonight we will sleep in our bathing suits, walk in forests at 2:00 A.M., and shout words to fireworks that collapse above us in the night sky. Kevin is perched on a log, singing a song to himself. Bobby smokes a Marlboro in the distance, its sickly, sweet odor mixing with the smell of evening. I tread water in the lake, and I begin to laugh a glorious, genuine laugh. It's the first time I have really smiled in months. A loon cries, and its sound is what I imagine God's voice to sound like, if He could call out, too. Underwater minnows sleep, and crayfish patrol the blackened sand. Around me are cabins where the good people of this world sleep, and sit, and listen.
Your shoulders stiffen. Your palms are damp and your scalp feels strangely tight. There is a faint humming noise in your ears. You have to work hard to keep your breathing even, to keep from losing it entirely. This feeling is familiar to you; like butterflies in your stomach, but uglier. More sickening. This feeling is those horrid brown moths that always seem find their way into your room in the summer. You dig your fingernails into your palms, trying desperately to stop the walls from moving.
It is ten minutes before midnight and I have school in the morning-- I am awake for business, not pleasure. Typing away on my keyboard like a mad man, my face is contorted by the blinding white glow of the computer screen. I blink slowly, letting that painful, itchy blink that you feel when you've been up for the past 17 hours doing nothing but homework, sports, and chores sink in. My back is hunched and aching, yet I am too exhausted to stand up and stretch. The anxiety of not finishing my homework keeps me awake, and that alone. My future is determined by my grades, which are determined by turning in my homework, which is determined by me losing much-needed sleep. Guess I'll have to consume a lot of caffeine in preparation for tomorrow's game. God damn.
Hey, good piece! It is quite relatable to most readers, what with the sacrifice of sleep for school work, so that you may secure a successful future. I enjoyed the way you structured the sentence to stress less the importance on the future and more on the now (sleeping that is). It's almost philosophical. Also, the way you described the moment ten minutes before midnight was very nifty, it was easy to imagine since it was also very similar to my own experiences. Good work, good read.
It feels like Seventy Degrees as we traverse the hiking path up to some friggin huts that our guide lady claims to exist, but until I see it I can't be sure it really is there. I suppose continuing with that line of reasoning, I can't be too sure that civilization still existed either. It was eight hours into the first day, and my sanity, like a clean slab of marble under the pressure of little chips of wood, was already beginning to crack ever so slightly. We had long left the comfort and companionship of the paved roads for hiking paths worn down by feet so as to make them distinguishable. I had already begun to whine and groan about the hike when we reached the first obstacle; rocks portruding as if the forest was suffering compound fractures. "Guess we should turn around then guys!" I gleefully try to suggest, only to be shot down by my group guide who states that the stones were easily traversed. "They won't be long!" she said, "You'll see over the tree line soon!" she continued. Her optimism was kindling for the fire driving my other group members, but cold water for my less-than-burning flame.
I really like the description in this piece. Little things from "some friggin huts that our guide lady claims to exist" ("claims" is nice here), to the loss of "the comfort and companionship of the paved roads for hiking paths worn down by feet so as to make them distinguishable" (I like how you described paved roads as a "companion"). This piece is a great embodiment of the miserable, exhausted feeling of being in the wilderness, hiking for hours (a feeling I personally experienced on the very same trip you talk about).
The air is stuffy, thick, and hot. I make my way over to the bar, my heart pounding in my chest-- I feel alive. Josey introduces me. "Hello, I'm Leah." We shake hands. I am asked about my interests, and I reply that I'm a writer, but not a very good one. "I mean I'd love to write a book at some point, I have a few unfinished novels and a poetic nonfiction book I'm working on now." I am told to keep at it. The noise level in here is incredible. I take a sip of my Shirley Temple and set it back down on the hardwood bar as we begin to discuss astrophysics. I have butterflies in my stomach, I can't believe this is happening. We are smiling, laughing together, carrying on a real conversation!! I start to become self-conscious. Do I look okay? I straighten my flannel shirt and try to fix my hair without making it look like I'm trying to make myself look good. We smile at each other. Finally, we are ushered away from each other and say our "It was nice to meet you!" farewells. It's so stuffy in here, I can barely breathe. I walk over to Michael, mouth the word "WOW!" and take a deep breath. I did it. I talked to my hero that I see every night on television. Jesus, man. I feel a rush of confidence, I am invincible here in this smoky place. I can do anything. I just talked to my hero. With my newfound sense of strength, I go over and talk to the cute person I saw walking in. Holy crap, I'm talking to my latest object of affection as easily as if we had known each other for years. This is the night of my life. I up my game, start really flirting and complimenting, little touches here and there that just scream my blog's most googled tag. We part, talk to you later. I go back over to Michael and damn, he know's what I've just done. My Person walks to be drooled over by friends and I glance back over my shoulder. I order another shirley temple and talk to Michael about the Scissor Sisters. Then, I see my hero walking out of the bar. I squeeze my way through bodies in the dimly-lit, suffocating room and say, "Hey! I just want you to know... You're my hero!" "What?!" "I said, You're My Hero!" "No- you're MY hero!" "Can I have a hug?" "Of course!" We part. The night clams down. I drive back to Maine. I breathe a heavy sigh of stale adrenaline.
I hit refresh over and over again. I check the weather sites. I look through the window every few seconds. 99%. Snowstorm. Still, the ground is bare. I pace back and forth in my room, daunted by the pile of binders about to tumble over on my bed. I choose phone a friend. I dial 6998074, knowing I have it on speed dial, but procrastination isn't really a problem now. "What do you think?" I ask. "I'm not doing anything. Its 2 am, so Im going to bed and if there is school tomorrow than Im fucked and willing to pay the consequences," she responds, and I hear the click on the other end, signifying that she has left, and will most likely follow through on what she had said. I do a cartwheel to clear my head, and crawl into bed. Brow furrowed, I hit refresh again. Still 99%. I doodle on the margins of my precalculus notes, attempt a problem or six, and watch an episode of Parks and Rec. Refresh. 99%. I set my alarm for 5:30, just in case the worst happens. I wake up, notice the drool on my math binder and computer still open. Once I come to, I rush to the window. The dry pavement stares at me, slapping me for my stupidity.
Frustration like a searing poison courses through my veins as I attempt to connect to the wireless network. Gritting my teeth and scarcely staving off the urge to fling my computer out a window I type in the password for what feels like the hundredth time.
"Is anyone else having trouble with the internet?" Voice choking, threatening to crack.
It's just as well that no one answers. I don't want help or pity. I want internet.
This is wonderful. I totally understand what feeling you were expressing in this piece. It's great, although I think you could expand on some ideas you presented here, maybe describe the wifi even more. I love the drama in this piece, and the frustration... it's absolutely palpable!
It is all white here. Everything is marble and stone, the crucifix, the altar, and the steps. At school I am asked why I believe, why I attend church. I don’t believe in the patriarch, the God we are meant to fear, the God from scripture. In reality there is two Gods. There is the God that belongs in a Scorsese picture, the one I argue with, and pray to six days of the week. Then there is what God that manifests himself in his kingdom. It is not God the deity, it is a God less defined. I have stepped into the home of the Lord. It is early. Mass will not start for another half and hour. My mother is praying one row away from the Cross. My father, well he’ll be late. Can’t blame him, ten years of Catholic school would make anyone resistant to religious protocol. The church is something of the old world, except for the cheap black stereos, which inaudibly echoes the old Latin hymns through my very being. These hymns are better than those sung in Church. The voices are more defined than those of the choir, and, with ease, situate a growing euphoria into the base of sole. This feeling will gradually secrete and hopefully will ride out the rest of the week with me.
Grass rustled gently in the breeze, looking comfortable and and inviting. I threw a blanket out, my back to the steady wind, the blanket unfolding its perfect geometry. The Maine summer sun lent me its warmth and its light, giving off that glow that lets you know everything is ok. And that day everything was better than ok; everything was beautiful. I closed my eyes and watched the tranquil, turquoise ocean wash along the beach, soaking under the round, fat sun. I rolled over, relaxed, rolled over, relaxed, time and time again. Some days are just like this.
ReplyDeleteWe are young, and for tonight, we have no goals. A gentle sunburn shadows my skin, and I enjoy the life it brings to my face. Tonight we will sleep in our bathing suits, walk in forests at 2:00 A.M., and shout words to fireworks that collapse above us in the night sky. Kevin is perched on a log, singing a song to himself. Bobby smokes a Marlboro in the distance, its sickly, sweet odor mixing with the smell of evening. I tread water in the lake, and I begin to laugh a glorious, genuine laugh. It's the first time I have really smiled in months. A loon cries, and its sound is what I imagine God's voice to sound like, if He could call out, too. Underwater minnows sleep, and crayfish patrol the blackened sand. Around me are cabins where the good people of this world sleep, and sit, and listen.
ReplyDeleteThe fire crackles as it always does when the wing flies through it violently. I perch on a log, awkwardly close to my father. It is the summer before 8th grade and I am thoroughly out of place, surrounded by more than twenty teen age boys. My shirt had appliqué of Mario riding Yoshi, his dinosaur friend. I wore a pair of nikes that I picked out of my closet, sure that this would impress the sophomore boys who I would be spending the next four days with. As the night crept on the number of silhouettes surrounding the dying fire reduced to just five. Bubba, a rotund and jolly trip leader a camp, and my father who sat serenely after a long day of work. I sat between the two, laughing a long, but hardly joining in on the conversation. Two boys sat across the fire, two boys that I had always wished I was friends with. My shyness too often stunted my effort to make friends. It just took a few mosquitoes to let my true colors shine through even this rural maine darkness. I reached onto the picnic table and grabbed the large can of bug repellent. Fumbling, my fingers finally felt the indentation and pushed down. Bug spray careened through the night air and into my eyes. "Holy fucking shit, fuck me, I sprayed it in my eyes." Silent rung through the thick air, until two voices burst out into laughter on the opposite side of the fire.
ReplyDelete"Wow you're such a lady," Joked Ryan.
To this day he is one of my best friends and we often laugh at my awkward and
not- so "lady like" behavior.
Your shoulders stiffen. Your palms are damp and your scalp feels strangely tight. There is a faint humming noise in your ears. You have to work hard to keep your breathing even, to keep from losing it entirely. This feeling is familiar to you; like butterflies in your stomach, but uglier. More sickening. This feeling is those horrid brown moths that always seem find their way into your room in the summer. You dig your fingernails into your palms, trying desperately to stop the walls from moving.
ReplyDeleteIt is ten minutes before midnight and I have school in the morning-- I am awake for business, not pleasure. Typing away on my keyboard like a mad man, my face is contorted by the blinding white glow of the computer screen. I blink slowly, letting that painful, itchy blink that you feel when you've been up for the past 17 hours doing nothing but homework, sports, and chores sink in. My back is hunched and aching, yet I am too exhausted to stand up and stretch. The anxiety of not finishing my homework keeps me awake, and that alone. My future is determined by my grades, which are determined by turning in my homework, which is determined by me losing much-needed sleep. Guess I'll have to consume a lot of caffeine in preparation for tomorrow's game. God damn.
ReplyDeleteHey, good piece! It is quite relatable to most readers, what with the sacrifice of sleep for school work, so that you may secure a successful future. I enjoyed the way you structured the sentence to stress less the importance on the future and more on the now (sleeping that is). It's almost philosophical. Also, the way you described the moment ten minutes before midnight was very nifty, it was easy to imagine since it was also very similar to my own experiences. Good work, good read.
DeleteIt feels like Seventy Degrees as we traverse the hiking path up to some friggin huts that our guide lady claims to exist, but until I see it I can't be sure it really is there. I suppose continuing with that line of reasoning, I can't be too sure that civilization still existed either.
ReplyDeleteIt was eight hours into the first day, and my sanity, like a clean slab of marble under the pressure of little chips of wood, was already beginning to crack ever so slightly. We had long left the comfort and companionship of the paved roads for hiking paths worn down by feet so as to make them distinguishable. I had already begun to whine and groan about the hike when we reached the first obstacle; rocks portruding as if the forest was suffering compound fractures.
"Guess we should turn around then guys!" I gleefully try to suggest, only to be shot down by my group guide who states that the stones were easily traversed.
"They won't be long!" she said, "You'll see over the tree line soon!" she continued. Her optimism was kindling for the fire driving my other group members, but cold water for my less-than-burning flame.
I really like the description in this piece. Little things from "some friggin huts that our guide lady claims to exist" ("claims" is nice here), to the loss of "the comfort and companionship of the paved roads for hiking paths worn down by feet so as to make them distinguishable" (I like how you described paved roads as a "companion"). This piece is a great embodiment of the miserable, exhausted feeling of being in the wilderness, hiking for hours (a feeling I personally experienced on the very same trip you talk about).
DeleteThe air is stuffy, thick, and hot. I make my way over to the bar, my heart pounding in my chest-- I feel alive. Josey introduces me.
ReplyDelete"Hello, I'm Leah." We shake hands. I am asked about my interests, and I reply that I'm a writer, but not a very good one. "I mean I'd love to write a book at some point, I have a few unfinished novels and a poetic nonfiction book I'm working on now." I am told to keep at it. The noise level in here is incredible. I take a sip of my Shirley Temple and set it back down on the hardwood bar as we begin to discuss astrophysics. I have butterflies in my stomach, I can't believe this is happening. We are smiling, laughing together, carrying on a real conversation!! I start to become self-conscious. Do I look okay? I straighten my flannel shirt and try to fix my hair without making it look like I'm trying to make myself look good. We smile at each other.
Finally, we are ushered away from each other and say our "It was nice to meet you!" farewells. It's so stuffy in here, I can barely breathe. I walk over to Michael, mouth the word "WOW!" and take a deep breath. I did it. I talked to my hero that I see every night on television. Jesus, man. I feel a rush of confidence, I am invincible here in this smoky place. I can do anything. I just talked to my hero. With my newfound sense of strength, I go over and talk to the cute person I saw walking in. Holy crap, I'm talking to my latest object of affection as easily as if we had known each other for years. This is the night of my life. I up my game, start really flirting and complimenting, little touches here and there that just scream my blog's most googled tag. We part, talk to you later. I go back over to Michael and damn, he know's what I've just done. My Person walks to be drooled over by friends and I glance back over my shoulder. I order another shirley temple and talk to Michael about the Scissor Sisters.
Then, I see my hero walking out of the bar. I squeeze my way through bodies in the dimly-lit, suffocating room and say, "Hey! I just want you to know... You're my hero!"
"What?!"
"I said, You're My Hero!"
"No- you're MY hero!"
"Can I have a hug?"
"Of course!"
We part. The night clams down. I drive back to Maine. I breathe a heavy sigh of stale adrenaline.
I hit refresh over and over again. I check the weather sites. I look through the window every few seconds. 99%. Snowstorm. Still, the ground is bare. I pace back and forth in my room, daunted by the pile of binders about to tumble over on my bed. I choose phone a friend. I dial 6998074, knowing I have it on speed dial, but procrastination isn't really a problem now. "What do you think?" I ask. "I'm not doing anything. Its 2 am, so Im going to bed and if there is school tomorrow than Im fucked and willing to pay the consequences," she responds, and I hear the click on the other end, signifying that she has left, and will most likely follow through on what she had said. I do a cartwheel to clear my head, and crawl into bed. Brow furrowed, I hit refresh again. Still 99%. I doodle on the margins of my precalculus notes, attempt a problem or six, and watch an episode of Parks and Rec. Refresh. 99%. I set my alarm for 5:30, just in case the worst happens. I wake up, notice the drool on my math binder and computer still open. Once I come to, I rush to the window. The dry pavement stares at me, slapping me for my stupidity.
ReplyDeleteFrustration like a searing poison courses through my veins as I attempt to connect to the wireless network. Gritting my teeth and scarcely staving off the urge to fling my computer out a window I type in the password for what feels like the hundredth time.
ReplyDelete"Is anyone else having trouble with the internet?" Voice choking, threatening to crack.
It's just as well that no one answers. I don't want help or pity. I want internet.
This is wonderful. I totally understand what feeling you were expressing in this piece. It's great, although I think you could expand on some ideas you presented here, maybe describe the wifi even more. I love the drama in this piece, and the frustration... it's absolutely palpable!
DeleteIt is all white here. Everything is marble and stone, the crucifix, the altar, and the steps. At school I am asked why I believe, why I attend church. I don’t believe in the patriarch, the God we are meant to fear, the God from scripture. In reality there is two Gods. There is the God that belongs in a Scorsese picture, the one I argue with, and pray to six days of the week. Then there is what God that manifests himself in his kingdom. It is not God the deity, it is a God less defined.
ReplyDeleteI have stepped into the home of the Lord. It is early. Mass will not start for another half and hour. My mother is praying one row away from the Cross. My father, well he’ll be late. Can’t blame him, ten years of Catholic school would make anyone resistant to religious protocol. The church is something of the old world, except for the cheap black stereos, which inaudibly echoes the old Latin hymns through my very being. These hymns are better than those sung in Church. The voices are more defined than those of the choir, and, with ease, situate a growing euphoria into the base of sole. This feeling will gradually secrete and hopefully will ride out the rest of the week with me.