Sorry!


I’ll be able to explain more tomorrow, but here’s something to read in the meantime:

Not now, please.  Not today, not today, not today … I thought.  Still, she kept walking towards me.

No, no, no, no!  What did I do to deserve this?

Every day, I read under the awning.  Every.  Single.  Day.  No matter what, I was there, nose in a book.  Today, it was sunny. A slight wind. It was really one of those days that you couldn’t pass up.  It was towards the end of spring, so it hadn’t been too hot, but it hadn’t been rainy either.  Not too windy.  It was too perfect – I had sat on the swings, leaving my book inside.

Five minutes!  Is that all the ‘happy time’ I’m allowed to have?  What have I done to you?

No matter.  It was too late to run, too late to hide, too late to get help.  I had to stay.  Try and stand my ground.  Try to ignore them.  Try to be strong without my shield of literature.

She just stood there.  Just for a moment, she looked at me.  I had focused on a picnic table, just to give myself something to do, but I saw it from the corner of my eye.  She stared at me.  There was no pity in her eyes.

There was nothing except apprehension.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t Ally!

No, no, no, no! A crowd had gathered.  It’s almost as if they had a built in embarrassment shame-detector.

She waited until everyone had settled before moving on.  “I can’t believe you’re so cruel!”  A tear started to form in the corner of her eye.

Not the waterworks!  That gets the audience every time!

“I mean, like, really! How could you break- I’m, I’m sorry.  I … I can’t.”  Within milliseconds, her entire posse – and posse hopefuls – were rubbing her back, giving her hugs, and muttering,  “It’s okay.  Let it all out.  There you go,” in soothing voices.

“Thanks, guys. I needed that. It’s just that … well … it’s so hard to face the person-”  she said ‘person’ as if she were taunting a trapped virus.  “The person responsible for my baby sister’s broken arm!”

I had been so confused at the time.  All I could think was, What sister?  She has a sister?

Riley continued on with her tale.  From what she said, I had deliberately pushed her baby sister, who at that point was supposedly around five, off the swing even though there were open ones right next to her.  She landed on her arm and broke it.  Of course, the crowd, which was immense by this time, must have assumed that I ran away laughing hysterically, and they started to shout at me.  “Baby hater!”

All I could do was watch in horror.  How could everyone just assume she was right? Would no one listen to my side of the story – that I hadn’t even know Riley had a sister and that once I got home from school, I didn’t leave the house?  In fact, all year, I could count on one hand the amount of times I had left the house after three o’clock when school ended.

Meanwhile, the chant continued.  “Baby hater! Baby hater! Baby hater!”

I couldn’t take it anymore. I had always had just one policy when it came to bullying: Ignore them.  Don’t show emotion.  They’ll have to go away eventually.

Now, I was questioning that.  They had been here for a solid ten minutes, just listening to Riley and then chanting.  They were supposed to leave now.  They were supposed to go away, to stop chanting, to stop teasing me. To stop …

They didn’t, they wouldn’t.  I was reaching my boiling point, already having my mouth agape with horror.  Already have shown emotion.  Already have broken.  I couldn’t move, I could only watch as Riley and her posse laughed and laughed while the crowd screamed.  I heard some saying they should try to make pitchforks.

This is why I hide.

How could people just stand there and watch?  How could someone not do anything to help?  How could no one hear the screaming in my head, the rushing in my ears, the pound of my heart?

I can’t, I can’t, I can’t. While Riley’s tears had been fake, the ones that were on the way out of my eyes were genuine.  I could only resist them another minute or so, there were too many.

Too many, too many, too many …

All hope was lost.  If they saw me break, if they saw me cry, everything would get so much worse.  I had to, somewhere inside, find the strength to at least run away, but it wasn’t there.  Nothing was left – it seemed as though everything had been replaced with tears, and that if I didn’t crack soon, I would burst.

Someone was disturbing the crowd.  People were being jostled, pushed, shoved.  It was probably someone who wanted a better look, someone who wanted to see Ally the Baby Hater up close.

Bethany. She was the only one I could trust at this place, and sometimes even she was unsafe.  We were friends when her mood allowed it, and I clung to that – it was all I had.  It was pathetic.

Nevertheless, she was the one who was walking through the circle of people that had formed.

She was the one who was trying to reach me.

She was the one who was pulling me out of my swing.

She was the one who was forming a path through the hostile crowd.

She was the one who was dragging me across the parking lot.

She was the one who was towing me into the bathroom.

She was the one who was saving me.

 

Sincerely, Lemons

 

Openings and No Endings


THOUGHT OF THE DAY:

10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

9> You spend an inordinate amount of time scraping hair and bone out of your front grille.

8> You get more unwanted tickets than friends and family of the Detroit Tigers.

7> After less than 10 minutes in your car, Saddam and his sons change their minds and now “feel like walking to Jordan.”

6> Your family already has a roadside cross ready to mark the inevitable spot.

5> Earl Scheib just named his new 160-foot yacht after you.

4> You see more middle fingers than a manicurist.

3> The highway patrol cops in your state have memorized your date of birth, social security number, home address, license plate number and how many points you have left before your 39th trip to traffic school, which is named after you.

This is a piece I had to write for my English class. We only had to write a ‘chunky’ paragraph, so . . . . . . . . . this is the begging, I guess. Enjoy!

Not now, please. Not today, not today, not today … I thought. Still, she kept walking towards me.

No, no, no, no! What did I do to deserve this?

Every day, I read under the awning. Every. Single. Day. No matter what, I was there, nose in a book. Today, it was sunny. A slight wind. It was really one of those days that you couldn’t pass up. It was towards the end of spring, so it hadn’t been too hot, but it hadn’t been rainy either. Not too windy. It was too perfect – I had sat on the swings, leaving my book inside.

Five minutes! Is that all the ‘happy time’ I’m allowed to have? What have I done to you?

No matter. It was too late to run, too late to hide, too late to get help. I had to stay. Try and stand my ground. Try to ignore them. Try to be strong without my shield of literature.

She just stood there. Just for a moment, she looked at me. I had focused onto a picnic table, just to give myself something to do, but I saw it from the corner of my eye. She stared at me. There was no pity in her eyes.

There was nothing except apprehension.

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

Leave a comment and don’t forget to subscribe!

Sincerely, Lemons

Ha! Ha Ha Ha!


THOUGHT OF THE DAY:

10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

9> You spend an inordinate amount of time scraping hair and bone out of your front grille.

8> You get more unwanted tickets than friends and family of the Detroit Tigers.

7> After less than 10 minutes in your car, Saddam and his sons change their minds and now “feel like walking to Jordan.”

6> Your family already has a roadside cross ready to mark the inevitable spot.

5> Earl Scheib just named his new 160-foot yacht after you.

4> You see more middle fingers than a manicurist.

 

I’m tired, and a history paper ate all of my time today, so I’m just going to post a link to a funny website-slash-article I found a few days back:

http://www.cracked.com/funny-4485-classic-disney-movies/

Enjoy!

Sincerely, Lemons

More Short Stories!


THOUGHT OF THE DAY:

10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

9> You spend an inordinate amount of time scraping hair and bone out of your front grille.

8> You get more unwanted tickets than friends and family of the Detroit Tigers.

7> After less than 10 minutes in your car, Saddam and his sons change their minds and now “feel like walking to Jordan.”

6> Your family already has a roadside cross ready to mark the inevitable spot.

5> Earl Scheib just named his new 160-foot yacht after you.

 

Okay, here is a short story I had to write for my Language Arts class. Enjoy:

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

Slowly, I was pulled out of my shock by Lizzie.

“Lenny, let’s go!”

“Lenny, if we’re going to do this, we. Have. To. Do. It. Now.”

“I thought you wouldn’t chicken out! That’s why I chose you, Lenny, and not one of the other five girls I was considering!” It was Amy now. She was the one who picked the team for this… this…

Say it already! This mission.

Amy had heard about this arts school near Seattle that was able to give kids as young as eight full GED’s, among other sorts of diplomas. She thought it didn’t make sense, as it was supposed to be a school that emphasized the arts, so she sent Lizzie, our techie, to check it out. Right after the school year had ended, she came up with evidence of government funding. CIA funding.

After many discussions, Amy decided that she had to get in there, so she picked the four of us to help her. We spent all summer coming up with a plan to break into the Lu’age International Bank. A plan which was actually in effect right now. And if we didn’t move right now, our entire plan would be useless because Lizzie had been working for the past hour to shut down their cameras. If the cameras were active, we wouldn’t stand a chance at all — the security is insane, like jumping-off-a-cliff-without-a-harness insane. We each earned our own room in the psych ward of our choice if we continue.

But how could I not? If this worked, and we could get away from Burlington…

Pulling on my own black ski mask, I turned toward my partners-in-about-to-happen-crime.

“Let’s do this. I’m ready.”

Am I?

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

Leave a comment, and don’t forget to subscribe!

Sincerely, Lemons


THOUGHT OF THE DAY:

10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

9> You spend an inordinate amount of time scraping hair and bone out of your front grille.

8> You get more unwanted tickets than friends and family of the Detroit Tigers.

7> After less than 10 minutes in your car, Saddam and his sons change their minds and now “feel like walking to Jordan.”

6> Your family already has a roadside cross ready to mark the inevitable spot.

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

Sorry I wasn’t able to post. My internet was down. Anyway, here’s another piece:

This couldn’t be happening!  We only had another thirty-seconds before it was all over.  And yet, the small white door – the one with intricate paneling that marked it as the target – remained closed.  It had all seemed so, so … so simple when me and my companion were two floors above, ready for insertion.  Nevertheless, the only thing we didn’t predict, the only thing we couldn’t predict, sat there, mocking us: a chunky, plain black lock that sharply contrasted with the rest of the room.  If you looked anywhere else besides that jeering door you would see the colors that sprung at us from everywhere – all shades of oranges, pinks and greens.  You could easily imagine children leaping from sofa to sofa, jumping on the many tables and bookcases, banging on the tie-dyed walls.  Yet we weren’t interested in memories that had never been.  All we wanted was-

“Got it!”
Jumping inside the claustrophobic little room that served as a pantry, I grabbed the bright blue bag.

“Team B, hold off, we have them.  We’re coming up.”  I whispered into the walkie-talkie.

“Come.  On.  Already!  We have to move!” muttered my comrade.  Sprinting up the staircase, we soon reached the safety of our bright yellow headquarters.  Before long, the sound of rips and tears filled the room.

“Crunchy.”

“Sweet.”

“Salty.”

Turning towards the rest of my sisters-in-arms, I sighed in relief, finally having succeeded in our mission.

“Pretzel M&M’s.”

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

So? What do you guys think? Leave a comment, and don’t forget to subscribe!

Sincerely, Lemons

Contest 2.0 Recap


THOUGHT(s) OF THE DAY:

10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

9> You spend an inordinate amount of time scraping hair and bone out of your front grille.

8> You get more unwanted tickets than friends and family of the Detroit Tigers.

7> After less than 10 minutes in your car, Saddam and his sons change their minds and now “feel like walking to Jordan.”


Here’s all the entries, a sort of recap. Enjoy!:

Red robes lined the small stage, with bursts of yellow sashes for anyone who had done something special. A spotlight was on us, seemingly positioned just so it shined in our eyes.

“… and to our graduating class, congratulations! Welcome to the next leg of the journey that is life. As you very well know …” Mrs. Ionkoo, our vice principal, rambled on and on. Some people called her Oinkoo, because of her unfortunate name, shape, and nose. Really, she was asking for it, she looked like a pig. The resemblance was uncanny.

After her speech-slash-lecture-slash-torture was over, there would be more from other people. None would matter; they were really very irrelevant, just like this whole Eighth Grade Promotion Ceremony. The real reason everyone was tearing up (or all-out bawling in some cases, like Snotty Molly next to me), was because when this was over, we would be – wait for it …

High schoolers. And with that comes parties, peer pressure, and power (and “responsibility”).

Oh. Oinkoo sat down. Cue polite applause. Ike Bayletti, our valedictorian, stood up to announce another speaker. Next up: Superintendent-something. Moth? Goth? I didn’t catch the name. It doesn’t really matter, his speech is boring and predictable, just like Oinkoo’s. Oh well; he still gets some polite applause.

Wash. Dry. Repeat.

Speaker. Applause. Repeat.

Repeat, repeat, repeat. Stupid repetition – it seems to go on for hours. I wish it would just be over so I can go home and eat some purple raspberry ice cream – my favorite. Of course, there would be an after party somewhere, but there was no way I was going. I probably wasn’t invited anyway.

Another speech over, more polite applause. This schedule was like a malfunctioning robot – Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Can. Not. Stop.

Repeat … repeat … repeat.

After another hour, it was finally time for diplomas, and Mr. Latdon, our principal, took the stage. In a voice that can only be compared to the wheezing of an old computer, he started to call out the names. Even though my last name starts with a ‘D’, it took a solid half hour to get to me.

“Leslie Derem.” Mr. Latdon said into the microphone. Is it possible for someone’s voice to be so monotone? I thought while I walked. Step left, step right. Step left, step right. Step left, step right. Even down to the very last moment, all this school has ever been is repetition. A half-hearted congratulations later, I was a high schooler. Cool?

When Mr. Latdon finally dismissed us, I stuck around. Why not avoid traffic? It’s easier to walk if there’s no traffic.

I strolled around the school grounds, with no purpose besides wasting time. Before long, it was time to get back and start walking before it got really dark, and I started to jog back around the school to the main road.

Just before the street was within sight, a balloon caught my eye. It was tangled in an overgrown bush that the school means to trim but really never does, blaming funding. It was a very good quality balloon, against all odds; mylar was typical at events like these, yet here is a real helium balloon, which has been drawn on and signed by family.

Quite a few years ago, before the incident, I had a get-together with a few cousins. I don’t remember why, as I was very young, but I do recall going to the fair. There were games galore, dessert delights, and ‘radical’ rides. Of course, there were balloons everywhere. Our parents had underestimated our spending capabilities, and we had already run out of money, so we made up our own sport: Balloon Wishing. The first person to see a balloon would get to make a wish, then throw it up into the sky. If it was kept afloat for longer than fourteen-seconds, the wish would come true. I had fallen into the habit over the years of playing whenever I found a balloon like this one, one that was good quality.

The world suddenly seemed silent. Soundless, as if I were in the vacuum of space.

I picked up the balloon, not hearing the bush rustle as I tried to untangle it. After a few moments, it was free.

I lifted up the balloon so it was level with my face,

 

and read it. Most of it was just simple things, like, “Congrats, Jenny” or, “So proud, Grandpa”. Nestled among the fake, forced signatures was a true gem. It was a famous saying, it summed up my entire life up to this very moment. The world is a very confusing place, how could it not be, but this helped put everything in perspective.

How could I rob someone else from knowledge and wisdom, maybe even hope? I tied it back into the bush. Pay it forward, I thought. Walking away, I finally found myself breaking free from the guilt still present from the incident.

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

and tried to see it’s story. I’m a firm believer in that everything has a story and a purpose. The names were accompanied by cryptic messages.

Rad, dude! That person got a paper cut! lol, Johnny

Do you know where I can find canned unicorn meat? Best summer evr!!!! Luv, Mary

What if cat really spelled DOG??? Haha,ur da best! <3, Penny

Most of the balloon was covered in these. They seemed to be inside jokes, but who knew? All of them were in colorful marker, with no distinguishable pattern. There was one, though, that was clearly different. It was written in plain black, for one, and unlike the rest, was neatly written in cursive.

Stay strong, Leslie. I love you. Never forget. -Grandma Heather

I almost collapsed right then and there. Johnny, Mary, Penny … those were my cousins. From those holiday get-togethers and the funeral. And Grandma Heather – could she be  my Grandma Heather?

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

and tried to decide what to wish for. I wanted so much, I needed so much …

… but Balloon Wishing wasn’t the way to do it. I tied the balloon back onto the bush.

Let someone else have a wish.

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

So? Make sure to leave a comment, vote, and don’t forget to subscribe!

Sincerely, Lemons

Contest 2.1


THOUGHT(s) OF THE DAY:

10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

9> You spend an inordinate amount of time scraping hair and bone out of your front grille.

8> You get more unwanted tickets than friends and family of the Detroit Tigers.

Do you want me to continue with the TOTD series? Let me know below!

Here’s the next contest entry:

 

Red robes lined the small stage, with bursts of yellow sashes for anyone who had done something special. A spotlight was on us, seemingly positioned just so it shined in our eyes.

“… and to our graduating class, congratulations! Welcome to the next leg of the journey that is life. As you very well know …” Mrs. Ionkoo, our vice principal, rambled on and on. Some people called her Oinkoo, because of her unfortunate name, shape, and nose. Really, she was asking for it, she looked like a pig. The resemblance was uncanny.

After her speech-slash-lecture-slash-torture was over, there would be more from other people. None would matter; they were really very irrelevant, just like this whole Eighth Grade Promotion Ceremony. The real reason everyone was tearing up (or all-out bawling in some cases, like Snotty Molly next to me), was because when this was over, we would be – wait for it …

High schoolers. And with that comes parties, peer pressure, and power (and “responsibility”).

Oh. Oinkoo sat down. Cue polite applause. Ike Bayletti, our valedictorian, stood up to announce another speaker. Next up: Superintendent-something. Moth? Goth? I didn’t catch the name. It doesn’t really matter, his speech is boring and predictable, just like Oinkoo’s. Oh well; he still gets some polite applause.

Wash. Dry. Repeat.

Speaker. Applause. Repeat.

Repeat, repeat, repeat. Stupid repetition – it seems to go on for hours. I wish it would just be over so I can go home and eat some purple raspberry ice cream – my favorite. Of course, there would be an after party somewhere, but there was no way I was going. I probably wasn’t invited anyway.

Another speech over, more polite applause. This schedule was like a malfunctioning robot – Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Can. Not. Stop.

Repeat … repeat … repeat.

After another hour, it was finally time for diplomas, and Mr. Latdon, our principal, took the stage. In a voice that can only be compared to the wheezing of an old computer, he started to call out the names. Even though my last name starts with a ‘D’, it took a solid half hour to get to me.

“Leslie Derem.” Mr. Latdon said into the microphone. Is it possible for someone’s voice to be so monotone? I thought while I walked. Step left, step right. Step left, step right. Step left, step right. Even down to the very last moment, all this school has ever been is repetition. A half-hearted congratulations later, I was a high schooler. Cool?

When Mr. Latdon finally dismissed us, I stuck around. Why not avoid traffic? It’s easier to walk if there’s no traffic.

I strolled around the school grounds, with no purpose besides wasting time. Before long, it was time to get back and start walking before it got really dark, and I started to jog back around the school to the main road.

Just before the street was within sight, a balloon caught my eye. It was tangled in an overgrown bush that the school means to trim but really never does, blaming funding. It was a very good quality balloon, against all odds; mylar was typical at events like these, yet here is a real helium balloon, which has been drawn on and signed by family.

Quite a few years ago, before the incident, I had a get-together with a few cousins. I don’t remember why, as I was very young, but I do recall going to the fair. There were games galore, dessert delights, and ‘radical’ rides. Of course, there were balloons everywhere. Our parents had underestimated our spending capabilities, and we had already run out of money, so we made up our own sport: Balloon Wishing. The first person to see a balloon would get to make a wish, then throw it up into the sky. If it was kept afloat for longer than fourteen-seconds, the wish would come true. I had fallen into the habit over the years of playing whenever I found a balloon like this one, one that was good quality.

The world suddenly seemed silent. Soundless, as if I were in the vacuum of space.

I picked up the balloon, not hearing the bush rustle as I tried to untangle it. After a few moments, it was free.

I lifted up the balloon so it was level with my face, and read it. Most of it was just simple things, like, “Congrats, Jenny” or, “So proud, Grandpa”. Nestled among the fake, forced signatures was a true gem. It was a famous saying, it summed up my entire life up to this very moment. The world is a very confusing place, how could it not be, but this helped put everything in perspective.

How could I rob someone else from knowledge and wisdom, maybe even hope? I tied it back into the bush. Pay it forward, I thought. Walking away, I finally found myself breaking free from the guilt still present from the incident.

* * * * * * * * * * *

So? What do YOU think? Leave a comment, vote, and don’t forget to subscribe!

Sincerely, Lemons

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