We Lost Everything
It had blown through our small town destroying everything in sight. The part down the street had been thrown into the lake across the street. We huddled in our tiny, protective basement hoping it would find us. Winds were blowing seventy- five miles per hour my father had told me. At night when we all went to sleep I slept in the top bunk. I knew it was late when I was reading my magazine. Every so often I’d hear a tree branch fall onto a house or a power line or I’d hear the blaring sirens. I just couldn’t go to sleep, what if something broke through the metal doors, it might fall on me. I climbed out of my bed with my sleeping bag and a pillow, quickly, but quietly shuffled over to my golden retriever, Larry. He was curled up in his bed in a corner. I put my pill near his warm belly, set up my sleeping bag, crawled back into my sleeping bag and fell asleep. “Wake up, the house it’s gone,” I heard my older brother, Tim whisper shout to my parents. When my parents sat up my brother took my dad up the ladder and outside. My mom put her slippers on and walked over to me. She shook my side a little bit and asked me to help her make breakfast, which was only cereal, so I’m not sure why she need my help. When my dad and Tim came back in told my mom he needed to talk to her outside. “What’s going on,” I asked my brother curiously. “Nothing,” he lied. Everyone always lies to me because they think I can’t handle the truth. When in reality I was twelve years old and knew way more then they thought. When mom came back in she was in tears. I handed her cereal to her, but instead of eating it she gave it to Larry. My dad told me to take Larry outside when I was done. I knew what was going to happen, they were going to talk about whatever was going on without me. When I finished my cereal I grabbed Larry’s leash and took him outside. That’s when I knew was going on, our house had been destroyed. Once Larry was done I took him back in the basement. “The house is gone and none of you decided to tell me,” I shouted at everyone. “Sweetie-“ my mom started, but I cut her off. “Don’t sweetie me, you guys always keep things from me, but I know way more then you think,” I continued to shout. “Audrey-,” my dad started to explain, but I cut him off too. “Just leave me alone,” I demanded. I climbed up into my bunk and lay there staring at the wall, I stayed that way for a couple hours until my mom came up and started to talk to me. “Sweetie, please come down we want to talk to you,” my mom asked. “Oh, so now you want to include me,” I mumbled and climbed down. When I got down I sat next to my brother even though I was still mad at him along with my mom and dad.
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“Drip, drop, drip, drop,” the pitter patter of light rain pelts the sidewalk as I trudge along, “drip, drop, drip, drop,” the rain pelts the thick black cloth of my burqa as I try to keep pushing along the wet city streets. I step in a warm puddle as I cross the street to the next block. Now I’m just five blocks away. It would take me so much less time if I didn’t have to wear this thick piece of cloth over everything except a little slip near my eyes so that I can see. I wear my Burqa because of my religion. I am Islam. I wear it because I am serious about it. People think just because I wear the burqa around thatam happy with wearing it. They are horribly wrong. My body whole body drips with sweat, and it’s hard to breathe since the cloth covers my nose and mouth. It’s hard for me to walk since the thick cloth is always pulling against my legs. Wearing a burqa feels like I am wearing a long skirt that is too long and ten sizes to tight. Not to mention a lot hotter. I have seen the locks that people give me. I see them point, I see them whisper to each other. I hear people talking and calling me names to each other, not worrying whether I hear it or not. I have felt the sharpness of their glances. It is as if I was responsible for the September eleventh
attacks just because I am a Muslim. I have felt the pain of peoples words, and I have felt the heaviness of their glances. I sometimes question whether it is necessary for me to wear a burqua. After all this is America, and I am in what they call the city of brotherly love, but I dismiss these foolish thoughts before I have time to think about them more. And as I trudge towards the train station, staring straight ahead and thinking about the glorious moment it will be when I get home, I realize no matter what people say or do, I will always stay true to my faith and my religion. Through the Hidden Eyes
Alone Nothing but rubble surrounding The racket of bombs crashing against the parched ground Ceramic pots dropped and trampled Each piece carefully picked up The whole country is blown apart Wearing a burqa, wear a tent That hides beauty Mouth is blind Have to eat my voice Hands are locked in a cage Not able to move or shake Amber eyes stare Never seeing the world clearly Burqa sweeps the dust Feet sliding on the ground The fabric thrashing against legs The rays of the boiling sun seep through the cloth pressing on my face Flesh is concealed These drapes are the prison But there’s nothing more than wishful thinking. Smoke,
Coming out of the windows And doors Burning down Old memories that would never, Be replaced. Trapped Inside my small little house With no way out Blood on my leg Hurting Aching in pain Wishing it would just fall off But I knew that wouldn't happen. A man In a suit Lifted me from the corner in my room Puff coming out of my breath Coughing up smoke, Losing breath Carried out of my house My leg rubbing against his suit Burning Bleeding Boiling In the hospital patients fill the room Broken arms Legs, People in beds, They rush me into a room And throw me on a bed I scream and yell in pain and fright Telling him to stop He gives a nod It was time My mother walks in Face full of tears Cold Full of worry Her hands meets my face I turn toward her, She tells me My leg will not survive Too much blood and skin A cup Full of medicine I am going to be asleep while the job is done No more running No track They were all disappearing My eyes slowly closing Getting darker Smaller My eyes heavier Closing This was the last time I would see my leg Full of blood And no feeling. My father may no longer be part of me,
he is here with me, but he is not a part of me. I left my father, Like an apple rolling away from the tree inch by inch, day by day. Now I must stand for myself, alone to fight the darkness, without help, and barely standing a chance. No longer may I be a child, I must fight on instead, no matter what, this twisted world throws at me, I will survive. Never will I fall, Never will I give up, I will carry on, No matter what. Feet hit the ground, so soft so silent,
No sound is acknowledged. Your the only one alive, or so it seems, though dim yellow lights spill softly down white slopes like melting butter. Nothing matters but the world, which is the only thing that should matter. Yesterdays argument and Saturday's confrontation are far behind you. No more headaches press on your tired mind. You have lost yourself, but not entirely. You still exist, just not at the moment. Your so silent. Feet barely hit the ground. You know you'll be back, in your unknown town. Buildings keeling over From the pains of bombs and mines, The rubble’s dust drifts through the wind Resting from time-to-time. Windows masked in deep black A shield from wondering eyes, War raging on, going strong Taking many lives. Why does it matter Why don’t I leave, I suppose if I tried hard enough I could flee with ease. I could have a better life Or a worse one over there, I already can live life here So why risk a scare. My house is still intact Withstanding the air, The darkness embraces and warms my soul For I can’t see the war anywhere. When I was young I was told home is where Your family and friends are that day, They all live in Afghanistan That’s why I stay. 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. 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. |
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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