RESPONSE: Halloween Stories

JORDAN:

Satisfyingly creepy. I really appreciated the main character and his general creepiness when he killed the wife.

CARISSA:

Very well written and easy to follow. Love the plot twists! Well done.

TRISTAN:

Although his story was not finished I read some of his other Halloween themed things and I LOVED THEM. Really disappointed I won't get to read it. I'll have to come back!

ME:

My Halloween plans consist of driving to my other grandparents house because I have a college visit tomorrow at Truman State. Zero festivities going on in my life.

We All Live in a Yellow Submarine

I wasn’t alone. I’m never alone anymore. I first saw that man at the mall. I was at the food court with my best friend Ashlin when I caught him staring at me. I’d felt it for a while, his stares on the back of my neck. Always watching. Even through his sunglasses I could tell he was watching me. 

Ever since that day at the mall I’ve been careful not to be alone. I’ve seen the movies. I know when people get kidnapped. I even told my mom I thought someone was watching me. She rolled her eyes and said her usual “You just want attention, Lily,” before returning to her sixth or seventh bottle of beer that night; she’s lost count by this point.

The scariest part is I don’t know how he finds me. Everywhere I go I see him, or at least I think I do. I’ve started imagining his face on the television and in pictures. I can’t turn to page 306 of my social studies book because they have a picture that looks too much like him. And then there is his car. A 2009 Saturn Outlook. It’s a nice, silver SUV, quite innocent. Sadly, when I see that car I automatically go into panic mode. He’s everywhere. Always watching. Always waiting. For his chance.

I’m walking to the bus stop; that’s the farthest I’ll go by myself. I arrive at the bus stop and wait around with Gary Clements, the only other kid at my stop. I’m safely on the bus when I hear a scream. The bus stops. The engine dies.

“Is everyone okay back there?” my bus driver calls.

When I see the silver 2009 Saturn Outlook parked nearby, I know we aren’t. Much to my dismay, there is a collective “yes” from my classmates that says otherwise.

My bus driver gets up to check under the hood. With the hood popped up, his bright red shirt disappears from view. The other students sit on the bus, gossiping nonchalantly amongst themselves. I try to peek out the small window of the bus at the driver. I look down the narrow Georgia road and see nothing but telephone poles and cotton fields. Trees dust the horizon causing long shadows from the morning sun. Of course my school has to be out of town, easier for him to get away with kidnapping me. 

This all just worked out too perfectly for him. But of course it had. He’d worked out the time in my schedule that I would be most vulnerable. And of my alcoholic mother was too drunk to care.

Nearly ten minutes after the bus driver left to check out the hood, Sasha Willis pipes up from the back of the bus. “Where is Mr. Randolphe?” she asks.

“He’s still in front of the bus checking out the engine,” answers Brad Bellmen.

“Still?” Sasha remarks.

“I’ll go check on him,” I pipe up. I don’t know what I’m thinking, but I do it anyway.

When I’m off the bus I walk around to the front. The bus driver is nowhere to be found. “Mr. Randolphe? Hello?”

Then I’m being strangled. Large, hairy hands wrap around my mouth preventing me from screaming.

“You’re just the one I wanted to see,” my stalker says with a smile. “I didn’t know how many others I was going to have to kill by hand.”

My eyes are wide. I am going to die. He drags me about ten yards away from the bus. The rest of the students are still on the bus, casually talking about normal high school kids.

Talking until they couldn’t anymore. I watch the school bus go up in flames.

“That took me a long time,” my stalker says with a smile on his face. “You have no idea how much planning has been put into this one day. Thank you.”

The last things I remember are my muffled screams and then a sharp pain on my head.

****************

I wake up, my head throbbing, in a room full of pictures. Pictures covering the walls, even the ceiling, pictures laying in piles on the floor. All I see is pictures. And the worst part is that they are all pictures of me.

Everywhere I look is my blond hair, my blue eyes, my slender body. Some of the pictures I have seen before, pictures that I’ve posted on Facebook. Some pictures I have never seen before. Likely they were taken by him. Side profile pictures, pictures of my back. Everywhere I look I see me.

At least I’m alive, I suppose. But as of right now, I don’t know which is better. As I stand up to look around, I hear a soft whistle. The tune sounds familiar but I can’t quite put my finger on it. The whistle gets louder, approaching my doorway.

When it gets to the chorus I realize what song it is.

We all live in a yellow submarine.

The whistling stops when the doorknob to my room begins to open.

“Hello,” says my stalker.

“Who are you?” I say, refusing to show emotion.

“You can call me,” he hesitates for a moment, “Daddy…”

I pause, not exactly sure how to respond to that.

“Any other questions, my flower?”

“Yeah, where am I?”

“But didn’t you hear our song? We all live in a yellow submarine.”

“We? There are others?” I ask.

“Not anymore,” he says with a smile. “Now it’s just you and me.”

And then I’m alone again, floating through the deep sea. I feel the ship rock back and forth as we float. The pictures hanging on the wall sway back and forth in one harmonious dance. I don’t know how long it has been, but I decide to get up and move around a bit. I try the door. It’s unlocked.

I step out into the hallway and look both ways. It’s dark, so I pick a direction at random and walk. I feel my way down the dark hallway until I feel another door knob. Unlocked. I turn it and enter the brightly lit room.

And boy, did it get worse. Everything about this room is familiar. The shade of purple on the walls, the bed, all of the furniture: it’s all mine. This room is my room. It has the same bed sheets, the closet is in the same spot with the same clothes. I open the drawers to my desk. The key to my house is in the same spot in the drawer. Everything is exactly the same, almost as if he copy and pasted my entire room onto this sub.

“Do you like it?” his voice returns.

“What? This? How did–” he cuts me off.

“No more questions, my flower. Why don’t you sleep? You’ve had a long day.”

“Has it really been only a day?” I think out loud.

“Well you got on the bus this morning at 6:54, the bus was a minute late. You came with me at 7:23. We drove down to the docks and arrived at 9:12. Got on my submarine and then we were off! It’s probably about nine or ten at night. You usually go to sleep around this time unless you are up texting Ashlin.”

He knows everything about me.

**************** 

It turns out time doesn’t really matter on the sub. The days turn into weeks, the weeks into months, and the months into years. I’ve lost all count of time. Daddy, I’ve gotten used to calling him that by now, said he had ten years of food. We are about a third into it. Maybe three years? I honestly have no judgment on how long it has been, sailing around these deep waters. 

I think I’ve explored almost the entire ship. It is much larger than I originally thought and there are very few spots I have not been. That is until tonight. I finally picked the key to the secret room off of him. In every movie, every book there is a secret room. Of course the secret room holds the key to my exit. Doesn’t it always? I just have to figure out how to get in. 

And I’ve finally done it. 

I rush through my dinner. He fixed my favorite for the third time this week. After three years of eating it, fried chicken and mashed potatoes are no longer my favorite. Especially not this frozen stuff he bought to last us ten years. After the ten years, I don’t know what he plans to do. I don’t plan on finding out. 

After dinner I go to my room. It is starting to feel like home down here, as weird as it sounds. Maybe spending three years anywhere makes it feel like home. 

Once I am sure he is asleep. I quietly and cautiously slip out of my room. I go down the dark hallway and make an immediate left. 

And there it is. The small circular door that leads to what I presume to my way out. I slip the key in, careful not to jingle it and wake up Daddy. 

I open the door. It’s dark. There has to be a light switch in here somewhere. I find the lights and turn it on. 

This was not the way out. I shouldn’t have come here. 

There are bodies. Female bodies. They are at various stages of decomposing. Some, have obviously been here for a very long time. They all look to be about my age. 

“Oh, my flower,” I hear his voice from behind me. “I thought we had a deal.”

I slowly turn to see the hideous face of the only other passenger aboard the ship. 

“I’m sorry,” I quickly apologize. I know I need to get back into his good graces. I can’t end up like these girls. I look at their hideously twisted bodies. Dried blood mats their hair. Their skin is so decomposed they hardly look human anymore. “What did you do to them?” I ask. 

“They, like you, did the one thing I told them not to do. And they, like you, had to die for their crimes.” 

The next seconds flash by in an instant. Daddy pulls out a knife, swinging at my neck. 

“I’m sorry, my flower,” he says, pushing me onto the ground. I’m trashing for my life. He has already cut off a chunk of my hair. I bite his wrist when he pushes me. The look in his eyes is monstrous. He is set to kill me, and if I want to live, I have to kill him first. 

I’m bleeding. There’s blood everywhere. It’s dripping into my mouth. I try to spit out the warm salty taste but I’m being choked. I’m going to die. 

And then by some miracle of God the knife is in my hands. It only stays in my hands for a short moment before I plunge it into his stomach. 

“My flower...” his voice fades away as the life drains from his eyes. 

And then I’m all alone on this yellow submarine at the bottom of the ocean. I don’t know how to drive this or maneuver it through the ocean, but that is the least of my worries. I’m alive; I’m not quite sure how, but I’m going to get home. 

I make my way through the dark hallways, eerie with emptiness, and to the control room. As I stand behind the wheel, I see a small piece of paper taped to the steering wheel. I read what it says. 

As we live our life of ease

Everyone of us has all we need

Skies of blue and seas of green

In our yellow submarine

Under it is a picture of me smiling. 

"Pick Me!" A Halloween Tale

As I reached into the bag of candy I thought I heard a voice saying “Pick me! Pick me!”

“What? Who’s there?” I call out into the dark night. It has been a long night of trick or treating and I just began my trek home. My friends and I had a good time together getting all kinds of delicious candy and I was just beginning to dig into the loot.

I heard the voice again.

“Pick me! Pick me!” The voice is a soft one. Almost like it lives in a shadow. All traces of the voice are gone before one hardly even hears it in the first place.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hi,” says the voice. After the third time I hear it I realize it sounds like a little kid.

“Are you okay? Do you have your parents with you?” I call into the darkness.

“My parents are dead,” the small voice replies. Well that wasn’t the answer I was expecting.

“What?” I ask, hoping I’ve misheard.

A small girl steps out of the bushes. Her big blue eyes look up at me. “I said my parents are…” she fades away. Literally, she turns invisible. Where the girl once stood is an empty spot where the grass is padded down from her small feet.

“…dead…” whispers a voice in my ear. The voice doesn’t come from the outside. It’s as if the voice came from within me, from the depths of my mind.

What was in that candy? I think to myself.

“Can you help me?” the girl asks.

“What do you need?”

As soon as I ask that question the girl is back. This time instead of being a cute little girl full of life she is thin, pale, and emaciated. Her shrunken in cheeks and natty blond hair add to her already gruesome appearance. “I’m hungry,” she says.

“Do you want some of my candy?” I offer.

“Yes, yes, that will do,” she says with a crooked smile.

I dig into my bag of candy and pull out a caramel.

“You are going to have to unwrap it for me… my hands don’t work.”

I unwrap the caramel and toss it into her mouth. She has a satisfied smile on her face. “More? More?” she asks.

This continues until I’m well over halfway into my candy. I unwrap a piece for her and she eats it and then asks for some more. Each time more assertive.

“More?”

“More?”

“More?!”

“More!”

 “More!”

 “Yes, yes, you may have some more,” I say submissively. Before I know it, I’m down to one piece.

“More?” the little girl asks, creepier than ever. Her face has gotten even more sunken in, her skin more pale, and her body more emaciated.

“This is the last one,” I warn her. I don’t want her to freak out when I have no more.

“Okay,” she says with a smile. The previously adorable form flashes back for an instant before returning to the present hideousness.

I pop the last caramel into her mouth. She grabs my arm and latches on. “Thanks for picking me,” the voice from within whispers. After swallowing the caramel she begins munching on my hand. It doesn’t hurt, in fact I don’t really feel anything. I struggle to break free.

“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to escape her tightening grip.

“I’m hungry,” she whispers before continuing devouring me.

She’s thorough, I’ll give her that. I’ve almost completely disappeared…

But then I’m back. Right as she finished eating me I’ve returned in full form.

 “Hello,” the little girl greets me. She begins floating up into the dark trees.

“Come with me!” she says joyfully. As if I’d been doing it for centuries I float up and join her in the trees.

Before I know it, another child walks down the road towards us. As he reaches into the bag of candy that he is carrying, we both whisper, ”Pick me! Pick me!”

Song Quote Poem

My poem is about child abuse. Inspired by various songs and this picture of a kid.

All you ever did was break me

I know that we'll be safe and sound

I can't live a lie, running for my life

We're safe and sound

So wake me up when it's all over

Safe and sound

Yeah, you wreck me

Safe and sound

And now, we're ashes on the ground

I know that we'll be safe and sound



Not For Class Part 2

Here is a little scholarship story that I wrote. I'm quite proud of it. It would be great if I could get some feedback on it. Leave your ideas in the comments!

 

Rules:

Catherine

My long, rusty arm reaches up to lift the last pallet of boxes onto the truck. As I look at the now full truck, I think back to my younger days. Back to the days when I could easily fill many truck loads of heavy boxes. Back when I was a young, shiny new telehandler. Back to better times without chipped yellow paint and rusted hinges. This was a time when I felt like I was truly wanted, and not like I was on death row waiting to be replaced. 

I suppose that’s exactly why I’ve been sent down this painful trip on memory lane. The past week it seems all I’ve been able to think about is the past, thinking back to better days and brighter skies. Much to my dismay, today was not bright and sunny, and I worked for hours under grey skies, threatening a downpour at any minute. 

“Alright, bring her in,” the boss shouts up to my driver, Avery. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Avery mutters, putting me into gear. My engine hums to life, and I begin wheeling back towards the garage where they keep all the machines. I roll by the grey, dusty outer walls of the factory I work for and begin my sorrowful trek to the garage. I used to always envy the machines that had inside jobs. They never had to put up with weather, and they were kept in safer garages because they were more fragile. I quickly overcame this jealousy, however, because they were replaced more often. 

I, like many of the other outdoor machines, have been with Han’s Shipping since the beginning. However, the number of machines that remember the early days, when there was only one plant, has decreased to three. 

There’s me, of course, a CAT model telehandler. The other machines call us the movers, for obvious reasons. The other two machines are both trucks. Although they can hardly be compared to such equipment as a telehandler or crane, they served their hours nonetheless. 

Before I know it, I’m at the garage. The tall white gate is still lifted up, beckoning me in for the last time. I recall my first stay in this garage. With my yellow paint newly cleaned, I was excited to finally have a job and make a contribution to the world. I was one of the few brand new machines there, which probably accounts for my longer stay. Although I was small compared to some of the cranes, I was still one of the larger machines there. This is an aspect of myself of which I am proud. While I can lift things up over fifty feet in the air, I’m still small enough to fit into an average sized garage without needing a separate shed. 

Avery backs me into my stall and mutters, “Good girl, Catherine.” I cringe, because I know it is our last time. That is just the beginning of the end of my final work day. Many of the other telehandlers think it’s rather odd that a human named me. I have never known any different. My first day was merely a month after the death of Avery’s wife, Catherine. It took him a while, but once he’d warmed up to me, he decided to call me Catherine. We were always together, and he often talked to himself about her as he worked.

None of the other workers know about my name, and that’s just fine with me. Avery wipes down my plating. He starts at the black tip of the arm and descends towards the base, wiping off the paint, and in the spots where the paint has chipped off, the silver plating. He continues to clean me until he is certain I am free of dust. 

This is usually where our evening ritual ends. He says goodnight and leaves, shutting the garage. Tonight, he pauses. 

“Well, it’s been a good run,” he begins. “I’ll always remember you fondly. I know I’m probably a freak for getting so attached to a stupid telehandler--” I cringe when he says stupid, “but, frankly, I’m glad I have. You’ve gotten me through the death of my wife and the end of my career. I’ve enjoyed every minute sitting behind the wheel with you. I want you to know that this is the last time that we’ll be doing this. Your time with Han’s Shipping is up, Catherine. Between you and me, I’ve heard you’ve been purchased. I don’t know who the buyer is, but I wish you the best of luck in the future without me. Anyway, you’ve been the best machine I could ask for. You never break down. Before I go, I’m going to tell you that this is also my last day. I’m getting ready for retirement.” A solitary tear drips down his wrinkled, leathery cheek. “I hope you enjoy your retirement, wherever that may be. I’m going down to North Carolina to live closer to my son. I guess that’s all I have to tell you. Thank you, Catherine.” 

He turns to leave and grabs a tissue with his greasy hands, blowing his nose. The garage door comes to life when Avery hits the button, shutting it for the last time. As the door shuts, I try to peak out at the dimming light of day towards the factory, and I see Avery’s muddy brown work boots, slowly strolling away. 

Soon after Avery leaves, I’m not sure how much time has actually passed, the door opens again. This is unusual. Three men come in and head directly for my stall. I’m removed from my stall and begin to leave the garage. I recall what Avery said to me earlier about being purchased. I’m not worried about what will happen to me. I’m loaded onto a truck, it’s too dark outside to read what the writing on the side says. 

Once again I’m alone. I’m left in the lonely darkness of the truck. I have plenty of time to think about what life will be like at my new job. I suppose I’ll find out tomorrow. It’s been a long day and it’s time to rest. 

I’m jolted awake by movement from underneath me. I’m on some sort of conveyor belt. I feel exposed. Empty. I take in my surroundings, or what at least what I can, it’s quite dark. I do notice, however, that it is rather warm. I don’t have wheels. In fact, I am missing quite a few of my parts. In reality, I’m a skeleton. My framework is literally all that is left of me. What is happening to me? My mind is flooded with so many questions. 

But before I have a chance to answer them, there is a loud sound, similar to the garage door opening from last night, but this one is much faster. With the loud sound there is a bright light. I begin to fall, the light getting brighter and the heat getting closer. 

And then there is nothing. 

Epilogue

Avery sits on his soft lavender couch, Catherine’s favorite color, watching his small television. He catches himself looking onto the mantel above the fire place at his two tokens, made from the melted down metal of his beloved machine. Like he has many times before, when he looks at the two silver cats, he remembers his own two cats. 

Teachers and Music

Questions for the teachers:

 

1.      What music or songs remind you of your childhood?

a.       Mrs. Butcher said Guns and Roses reminds her of her childhood because that was what was popular then.  

b.      Tom Petty and Bob Dylan remind me of my childhood because that’s what my dad liked.

2.      Do you go to concerts? Which concerts are memorable for you? Why?

a.       Mrs. Butcher has attended Barry Mantalo and Air Supply concerts. She says both have been unique experiences and has enjoyed them both.

b.      I have not been to any concerts that I can remember.

3.      What radio stations do you normally listen to in your car? Do you sing along?

a.       Mrs. Butcher doesn’t listen to the radio. She enjoys the escape from sound in her car.

b.      I usually listen to 95.5 or 96.5 when they are playing good songs. And to answer the “do I sing along?” AWWW YEAHHH.

4.      Who is your favorite singer or group or song and why?

a.       Mrs. Hopke likes Journey and Steve Perry because she has lots of good memories listening to them.

b.      As I’ve already said, I like Imagine Dragons, Fun., and Owl City.

5.      What music reminds you of someone you love? Your Child? Spouse? Parents?

a.       Mrs. Hopke got to meet Matchbox 20 with her family and will always remember that. The song “You’re my Best Friend” by Queen reminds her of her husband.

b.      I think of  Tom Petty, Bob Dylan, and Relient K when I think of my dad.

6.      Which music or artist was controversial or offensive to some when you were growing up? Is anything offensive to you now?

a.       Mrs. Hopke’s mom thought everything was offensive.  Now, she finds some rap music offensive.

b.      I concur, rap music is quite sketch.

7.      Which music or artist do you really dislike or refuse to listen to?

a.       Mrs. Hopke dislikes country music and Ke$ha.

b.      In the wise words of Mrs. Hopke herself “I don’t want to listen to a song about ‘my girlfriend left me, and my dog died, and my truck broke down.’”

And what is a post without a few cute cats?

The Music In Me

Questions to me:

1.      When you listen to music, what feelings/ emotions does it evoke? Music can evoke different emotions depending on the song and what the listener is already feeling. Often times, music acts as a magnifier for whatever the listener is already feeling.

2.      What is your favorite song? Why? Is it connected to a certain time, event, or place? My favorite song changes quite often. I keep a running list for each season of my top 30 songs because I’m kind of a music nerd like that. Then I am able to go back and listen to the playlist I made of my top 30 songs from Spring 2012 or Winter 2012-13. Each time I go back and listen to an old playlist I am transported back to that time in my life. When I listen to any of my old summer playlists I can remember mowing the lawn listening to Payphone or Someone Like You. I can remember taking road trips listening to a Winter playlist feature What Makes you Beautiful and Owl City’s new CD, The Midsummer Station. Music to me is always connected to a memory or time or place. Currently, my favorite song is Demons by Imagine Dragons because the lyrics are so powerful and heartfelt. I’m sure in two years when I look back, I will be able to remember my senior year of high school because I have my Fall 2013 playlist saved, just waiting for me to take a trip down memory lane.

3.      How has your taste in music changed over the years? Currently I really like alternative rock and electronic. Bands like Imagine Dragons and Fun. and singers like Owl City are among my favorites. I have never liked country, rap, or really even pop that much. In reading, I read anything and everything, however my music tastes are much more refined. Some songs I like are on the edges of pop, however I would not consider myself a fan of pop music just because there is so much of it that I don’t like. The biggest change over the years is probably the fact that I listen to more secular music. When I was younger, late elementary and middle school, I pretty much solely listened to Christian music. Although I am still far from listening to any kind of music with swear words or other sketchy lyrics, I listen to much more secular music as a whole.

5.      Do your friends listen to the same styles of music as you? What do you think this means? Four of my closest friends all listen to similar styles of music. In fact, we almost got to go to an Imagine Dragons concert, recently; however we could not get a parent to take us. Although this certain group of friends listens to similar music as I do, I realize that is quite rare. Many of my other friends have a much more varied music taste and do not listen to the kind of music I am interested in.

8.      I admire the music of _________, because he/ she/ they­­________. I admire the music of Imagine Dragons and Owl City for a lot of the same reasons. They both send a message with their lyrics while still having good musicality to their music. Owl City writes some of the most inspiring and funny lyrics that I have ever heard, and there is a sort of poetry to how some of his songs flow. In addition to their wonderful lyrics, these two bands both are very musical. Since I am in band and play piano, I am able to pick up on chord progressions and other musical patterns. I also have a very talented ear and I can listen to almost any song and play it right back on the piano after about two or three tries. Both Owl City and Imagine Dragons play more than just four chords on repeat, and it makes their songs sound much more complex. For example, the song Radioactive is one of the most complex difficult songs I’ve tried to play for the sole purpose because it is so not repetitive. A lot of times I can listen to the chorus of a pop song and then be able to play the whole thing. Owl City and Imagine dragons have complex music and inspiring lyrics that make them great.

10.  Is there any style of music that should not be tolerated? Why? Rap music to me doesn’t even sound like music. Rap is just people talking with drums in the background. For a lot of the same reasons I like Imagine Dragons and Owl City, I dislike rap music. Most rap music (at least that I’ve heard) is basically one beat, sometimes even one chord, the whole song. Because rap music throws out any kind of melody line needed, they can get by with this kind of one chord song. The song Blurred Lines, is a great example of this over repetitive kind of music. The “hey, hey, hey, hey” line that is repeated in parts of the song could go the entire song without any breaks. Besides rap music I also dislike country. A lot of it has to do with the voices of most country singers. I can’t stand the southern country twang a lot of them sing with. Also, they lyrics are something I just can’t relate to. Rain makes corn. Corn makes whiskey. Whiskey makes my baby. Okay, that’s nice and all, but I just can’t relate to that. Although I dislike country I’m sure there are people out there who enjoy the twangy singing and the redneck lyrics and can enjoy that song. All in all, while rap I can’t even tolerate, I can at least see the appeal for country to some people.

13.  Is music poetry? What are some of the more “poetic lyrics you can think of? I already mentioned it briefly but almost any Owl City song could be poetry. Sadly, he is starting to stray away from some of his older electronic sounds and go more mainstream pop, however there are certainly songs that are poetry. Even one of his more familiar, Fireflies, is quite poetic. My favorite of his is probably Angels, but his entire album All Things Bright and Beautiful, is definitely very poetic in general.

 

 

 

Six Word Memoir of Certain Awesomeness

Six Words Six Times (Complete With Pictures)

 

Sacrificing fitting in to be myself.

 

Changing the world, word by word.

 

Can't my life be like literature?

 

Less athletic than the average human.

 

 

Too awesome for six words, yo.

 

Writing and reading my life away.

 

 

The View From the Corner

A short poem about the view from the only small window in my room

A grey roof below and neighboring houses

Dry gutters

A young tree by the backyard fence

Looking over into the neighbor's garden

Fences and houses down the street

A small birdie from yesterday's badminton game is lost on the roof

The leaves on the trees begin to turn red and orange

The colors of fall

Sometimes people in their backyards playing on jungle gyms

Grilling on the grill

Always tall trees and wooden fences, suburban paradise

The sun in the distant west

The sky beginning to turn dark

White clouds above and green grass below

A T.V. on in an upstairs window of a distant house

A silhouette of a woman making dinner

Other windows with other view points

And other people behind them looking back at me 

Narrative Poems about Paintings

Impressionist Sunrise

 

The soft yellow glow over the green and blue ocean

An orange sphere, unmistakably the rising sun

A world of color lost at sea

Silhouettes of boats and fishermen

Leave the docks to bring in today's catch

Schools of fish are seen down below

Just out of sight of searching fishermen

All as the sun rises over the bay

Reflecting off of the ocean of color

And bringing light to a new day

 

 

Woman in the Garden

 

Walking, thinking, even speaking to herself

Listening to the whispers of the flowers

And the secrets of the trees

The white angel, beautifully clothed in snowy purity

Casts a shadow of sinfully scandalous darkness

And as she walks through the protective trees

She shares her own thoughts

Her own secrets with them

And the trees listen take in her secret

Adding another to their number

 

 

 

 

Monet the Painter... Secret Poet?

Oscar-Claude Monet is the name.

Impressionist painting is the game.

 

My father was a grocer and my mom was a star

My brother was Leon, he played the guitar.

 

At La Harvre School of Arts is where I learned

When I left France I always returned

 

Camille was my wife, two sons we had.

But then she died, and I was quite sad.

 

1840 was the year I was born.

I died at 86, my death was forlorn.

 

During my life, was World War I.

Stalin was born and Hitler’s life begun.

 

These difficulties I overcame.

For a better life, I will always aim.

 

Now back to my art, the main point of this piece.

I hope I don’t bore you, the rhyming won’t cease.

 

I used colorful paints all over my art.

The Impressionist movement I did start.

 

Unclear up close but perfect afar,

Some people might think my style is bizarre.

 

Impressionist Sunrise is how the name arose.

And on from there the movement grows.

 

Woman in the Garden is a favorite of mine.

Her dress that I painted is quite divine.

 

Many of my paintings were set in France,

On boats and at weddings, sometimes at a dance.

 

I hope you enjoyed this poem of mine.

I sure enjoyed writing it, more than France likes it’s wine.  
 

The Gas Station

It’s late at night and it’s almost my turn to drive. There is a gas station up the road Brady is going to pull into where we are going to switch drivers. I turn around and look in the back where the rest of our party is sleeping. Diana and Rachel are laying in the middle row and Luke and Sandy are in the back. The street lights illuminate the car at regular intervals as we speed down the untraveled road.

 

It’s been almost three months since I’ve slept in a bed and my neck is suffering the consequences of sleeping in cars. The six of us, three guys and three girls, are road tripping across the United States, venturing out of our small hometown of Owl’s Head, Maine. We spent a week and a half traveling down the Atlantic coast. We traveled from Boston and New York to Washington D.C. and the beaches of Virginia and finally to the back roads of Georgia and into Alabama. From Alabama, we went to Mississippi and New Orleans. That was my favorite. We spent a day and a half in New Orleans, sleeping in a parking that night; it was terribly hot, I recall. We drove north after New Orleans, up the Mississippi into St. Louis. We visited the Gateway Arch and then headed out towards the west. Kansas was the most boring drive of my life and every mile there felt like an inch. Finally we made it to the mountains of Colorado.

 

And all of that was only one month. The trip has sped by, each day bringing new surprises. We did make it to San Francisco, California, which was going to be our turning around point. Instead we head south to L.A. and San Diego. That was beautiful and turned out to be an excellent move. We headed over to the Grand Canyon and then through the deserts of New Mexico. I ate the most delicious taco of my life in Midland, Texas. From there we went over to Oklahoma City and back through Kansas to Omaha. Through Iowa, which turned out to be much better than I expected, and into Chicago. Two months had gone by once we reached Chicago and it was nearing the end of July.

 

I was quite surprised by the fact that I hadn’t really felt home sick once the whole trip. Yeah, I missed my parents and my two little sisters, but I enjoyed myself so much on this trip. We were so busy all the time and if I could, I would live on the road with Brady, Luke, Diana, Rachel, and Sandy. We were already great friends, all of us, but I’ve gotten to know them so much better on this trip. The best way to test a friendship is to live out of an eight-passenger van with them for t three months. I’d say our friendship passed.

 

Now, nearing the end of the memorable and eventful three months, we return up northern New York and into Vermont and New Hampshire. The trees are becoming familiar and even the same New England smell is returning. The great Atlantic Ocean is once again within a day’s drive and life is going to return to normal.

 

We pull over in a gas station in New Hampshire and I step out and stretch.

 

“Hey morons, we are stopping. Go potty if you have to,” Brady teases.

 

“Shut up, Brady,” Diana laughs, rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “Who’s driving?”

 

“Nathan,” Brady answers. The five of us leave Brady to fill up the car with gas and head inside to use the restroom.

 

After our break, we head back outside and get back in the car to continue our trek home.

 

I wave goodbye to the adventure of trying something new as the sun rises over dull Maine. Owl’s Head is just a few hours away.