I stood up straight, fixed my eyes on the teachers’, and I waited for class to
begin. I was civilized, I was calm, I was prepared. The chaotic uprisings around me did not distract me from being the epitome of a perfect student. I folded my hands on my lap, patiently waiting for the bell to save me from the animals surrounding me. They do not understand; they do not realize the pain teachers go through. I admire them; the way each one has a unique teaching method. Some teaching methods are helpful, others not so much. The creativity behind homework, lessons, and projects, it is so interesting. Teachers deserve to be treated with respect, for being the ultimate teacher requires an impeccable student. Sitting quietly, raising hands, being polite all resemble the epitome of the perfect student. Sitting quietly demonstrates eagerness to learn. Responding to questions indicates listening skills and tests knowledge. Being polite reveals respect for the teacher. People lacking these basic fundaments of a student do not deserve respect or attention, awareness or responses. I, trying to achieve these fundaments, do not interact with anyone inside classes, for these are distractions from schoolwork. I silently walk through the hallways, for my ‘friends’ abandoned me after learning my new philosophy. Obviously, they could not cope with the idea of giving up social status’s to enter the peaceful, respectful, civilized manner of my ways. Teachers do not act like they mind the inexcusable behavior before the bell rings, but it is a disgrace to any being who acts like a wild animal. Screaming across the room to a friend is not acceptable in anyway. Talking about topics un-school related in school may be the worst of all, for if you are at a friend’s house isn’t it rude to talk about how one likes another house better! Disgracing the school is something a student should definitely not do, for anyone within their right mind would not dare speak badly about the school. I do not interact with my ‘classmates’ because they do not follow by my rules, so they will not receive my attention. I am civilized; I am impeccable.
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I didn’t want to play. I didn’t want to touch the keyboard but I must. I
sat at the piano bench intertwining my hands together. A small tear floated: landing on my black dress. I drew my hair behind my ears sitting perched on the edge, ignoring the tears. I wished for home; I wished I were far away. Anywhere but this church. The ghostly white keys and black bars seemed odd to me. The notes printed in front of me seemed like a foreign language. I hadn’t played in weeks. My mom hadn’t noticed. I hadn’t even noticed. My dad would have noticed. Sending me directly into our study practicing “Hey Jude” until I completed it smoothly without mistakes. This is how it had always been. His love for piano stretched farther then mine. “Imagine”. That was his favorite. He would play “Imagine” by John Lennon on Saturday nights, the music that lulled me to sleep. I always played. I was good. When I was little, I would assemble on my father’s lap, and we would preform a Beatles song together. I was in charge of the high notes; he, the low notes, and I would sing while he hummed. My mother would stop drying dishes, come in, sit on our big burgundy chair, and sing along. Piano…my father…my life, were gone. I would never again hear the harmonious notes slicing through he warm air of our house. My father, sick for a while, chose to evade the circumstance and relished living everyday to the fullest potential. Near the end of his life, he was in the hospital for weeks being treated for cancer. Eventually, he insisted going home; it was the last time he was home. He called for me and demanded me to take him to the piano. We sat side-by-side on the solid-oak bench. “One last time,” he required as I started the high notes of “Imagine”, and he joined in. His voice was gone, so I sang for him. After we were done, I led him back up to his room. He died that night. My mind wandered back to where I was now, in front of everyone whom my father had ever loved. The church grew still as I plucked a short note to make sure my hands still worked. The tears flowing from my eyes, I played. “Imagine there’s no heaven…” my voice in rhythm with the notes, and although I was crying, my voice was clear: full of hope. I kept going, my melodic voice filling the steeple. The words of the song and my singing brought the comers to tears. Singing, I blocked out every antagonizing recollection of my father’s death, for this was for him. This song was our one last time. Alone and frightened.
with him, myself. His conscious rips. shreds the tears- he cannot know so much. He is a dark night. terror, I am. A coiled beast inside, with the dripping darkness of time. He wants to strike, I do. The lust to tear, the urge to burn. He wants to bite. Wallowing, patience bubbling, beneath the murky pool- the place where spirits churn. Diamonds to dust: He wants the pain, I want to love. The wind is quiet and mellow, like a giant’s easy sigh. You sit down on the yellowing grass and examine the beautiful piece of nature, clothed in candy yellow and velvety black.
I want a closer look at you. I take a few steps forward and C r a c k goes a twig. You look up frantically, like the little twig could actually want to harm you. A quiet, tiny, insignificant thing like that? He would never think of touching your beauty. I take another few steps and C r u n c h go the leaves under my feet. You are getting suspicious. Suspicious? Why? I would never hurt you. Not you, hurting you would be a waste of beauty, of passion, of love. I decide to wait a little longer, though my body tells me to run out of my camouflage and capture you back to the warm, sweet bed I prepared for you. But I wait. And I wait. Until you are done with your nature, and you stand. Until you walk slowly and gracefully through the wild grass. And I walk a few steps forward and C r a c k goes another twig. You jump a little. Why are you so scared? I would not touch a little, fragile thing like you. One look at your porcelain face and I would give you the world. You turn quickly and walk to your car, faster than I have ever seen you walk before. You look one last time behind you, like a person is standing in the woods, about to jump out on you. But I would never do that. I could never hurt you. You step in your car and stick your key in the ignition. Do not worry, little one. I have taken your battery. Now you may stay with me forever. There is a puzzled look on your face when your car does not turn on right away. I smile. Where do you have to go? I am right here. You slide your phone out of your expensive purse and dial your father’s number. Why try calling? There’s no reception in the silent stillness of the forest. You look panicked. May I help you? I walk towards your car and C r u n c h c r a c k r u s t l e . Why do you look at me that way? Why do you think I would hurt you? I walk up to your window. You roll down your window. You ask me for help. You ask if there is a service station near here. I tell you I’ll give you a ride to the gas station down the road. At first you doubt me. But why would I hurt you? You smile. I love that smile, like a burst of fiery sweetness that explodes through my mind, keeping me up late into the night thinking about you. You get out of your car and follow me to my truck. I parked in a side road so you wouldn’t see me. You ask me my name. My name? What IS my name. All I know is your name. Your beautiful, soft-spoken name. The name that rolls off my tongue, the name that, when spoken, brings memories of Christmas morning. But my name? I do not know. I lie. I do not like lying to you, but I have to. Dave, I say. You tell me your name. Wedding bells ring through my mind, and it feels like the sun is shining through me. Elizabeth. So easy, so beautiful. I smile. I love your name. We slip into my car and I start the engine. We chug along down the road, towards the gas station. But I have a surprise for you. I turn onto my street, the street that will soon be your street. You ask where we are going. I say we are taking a short cut. I lie again. I do not like lying. I tell you I need to stop in my house for some money. Will you come with me? You seem frightened at first, but then you follow me. We go in my house. Our house. I close and lock the door behind me, and sit down at the table. You ask why I am not getting money. I no longer need money. I have you. You scream. Why? Why are you screaming? Stop. Please stop. I do not mean to hurt you. The tears fall from your eyes. But why? Elizabeth, I could never hurt you. But you do not believe me. You ram on the door. It does not do you any good. My house is sound proof. You scream over and over. Elizabeth, please. Please stop. Please don’t make me hurt you. Beads of sweat form on my fatigued face.
Cloth covers me head to toe. I am the epitome of dread. My eyes burn through the ragged fabric through which I gaze. But underneath this raggedy robe, stands a woman who- if ever given the slightest chance- can rise up as a bird soaring through the bombed skies! She can rip off the cloth, drenched in sweat, and become more than she ever was …or ever will be. But given this endless, bitter, silent war, there is limits. I must not break those limits. I must not break those boundaries. No matter how much I want to or how much I try victory is far from my grasp. Glare into the pure, clear glass that stands in front of us. The same as anyone else, But we want to be different. Nothing in society can be considered perfect, even though we all want to be. The forlorn that whirls through us like a tornado feels like torture, because we are blamed to be ourselves but when we are changed it’s still wrong. That bitter taste of sorrow that you taste filling up in your mouth makes you feel heartsick. We have a constant visualization that someday we could be looked upon with adoration but for some reason that day doesn’t arrive. The blank piece of paper that is soon full of words that makes your heart sting when you silently repeat the letters forming a scene of sadness. We are all the same existence of life, and our unique qualities are what forms us together and if one thread is cut the whole picture is ruined. Our heart beats for a reason and that reason shouldn’t be broken, by a mistake or by the bottle of remorse poured into a person’s innocent heart. |
All work on this page was created by Middle School & High School students. We hope you enjoy reading their amazing poetry, essays, and stories.
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