I’m Back!


I’m back! I’m back! I’m back! I’m baaaack! Good news and bad news that need to be given, and since I (unfortunately) don’t have mind-reading powers, I am going to give you bad news first.

That was probably the worst flu I ever had. I’ll spare the details, because if you throw up onto your computer you’ll probably break it, but … ugh. In a word, this entire week has been ugh.

GOOD NEWS- I wrote a lot. I was sick in bed one day, but I had a dream that night that ended up fitting into the first story that I posted on here, Element Warfare. That scene, even though it isn’t even halfway finished, is now at over a thousand words. (PS: It’s a scene that fits in about halfway into the book. Should I still post it?) I was able to back up all of my novels, which is something I normally forget. And when I took a break from writing, I was on the internet (dam you, Facebook! Dam you!). I found agentquery.com, and it is absolutely amazing. I love it love it love it. Not only are there agents and an amazing search feature, but it’s free and …

Oh well, this isn’t an ad. Really, though, check it out.

Anyways, I had to keep up on my homework, and one of those was a prompt. Here is the finished product:

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, though 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, 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.

“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 road was within sight, a balloon caught my eye. It was tangled in an overgrown bush that the school means to clean 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 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.


What do you think? Don’t be gentle: I have to hand this in, after all, and now that I lost so much time to the flu I need to kick my writing into high-writing-gear.

Thank you so much for reading, and of course remember to subscribe so you never miss a post!

Sincerely, Lemons


2 responses to this post.

  1. Posted by Freedom, by the way on February 27, 2011 at 7:58 pm

    Like it! Especially like the “baloon game”–it adds such a touch of childish reality–don’t we all have “games” like that we played? Ours was wishing on a bale of hay (when a truck carting hay passeed). But if you turned around and saw the same hay again, then your wish wouldn’t come true. (obviously grew up in a rural area–probably not very many hay bales being carted around in cities).


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