Rerun

I get home and I do my homework, like always. The kitchen door is open, the windows are open and covered with a thin layer of cloth, the coffee table is full of junk that I haven’t used for a while, and my desktop is waiting for me to use it like again. The drawer full of discs opens with a small pull, and magically I see a whole world made of movie cases and discs. I take one while I linger around to see the back, is it good? Will it be enough to please me? Can this also be another favorite? The DVD player works it’s magic, and just like pop goes the weasel the disc chamber opens…waiting for its command. A smile comes across my face while I place the unscratched disc into the chamber entrance. Up goes the TV, and down goes the watcher onto the couch.

The scenes pass one by one and I watch like an owl watches its prey. "The End" comes onto the screen and yet the movie plays again. I laugh with an affable smile and watch the interminable movie until I run out of time. Yes, I like to watch reruns again and again. Even I don’t know what impels me to watch them again. My brother goes on a tirade asking how I can watch it so many times even though I already know what happens. It’s fun to watch them even if you’re bored; once you watch it for the first time you can skip to your favorite scenes. I think it also makes you feel better when you're despondent, reruns may take up time and may get boring, but it doesn't mean that they aren't as good as the first time you watch a movie.

The Sage

All the kids screamed out of delight “Yay! Its break time!” The grass was glittering with dew, the sun shone high and the snow covered what looked like grass. The kids were herded bad to the classroom. Time moved slowly with the ticking of the clock, the moving of pencils, and the crying of kindergarteners at the lunch table. I might have been a recluse when I first moved to Macedonia, but then a sage came and spoke wise words. The words reverberated in my head and eventually I made great friends.

The day ends with shouts from teachers, “It’s the last day of school so quickly get in your bus or cars!” The cars start moving along the pavement, bus doors slam shut…oh wait, there was only one bus. Then things went amiss. My teacher the one who taught me the first grade closed the bus door. I waved goodbye, no respond but footsteps fading away. What had happened impelled me to question her actions. Did she see me? Did she ignore me? Was I abhorrent to her? The questions were interminable, until I came to a profound conclusion. Oh…maybe she hates me! Today was the last day of school! How could you not wave goodbye on the last day? I became despondent and said to myself “She just didn’t see it.” trying to comfort myself. (I know, pathetic right?)

I just thought that I’d never see her again, she was always nice and positive even though my class only had four people. (Including me.) It was a fun year, she was an affable person. She wasn’t irascible, she never had to entreat anyone in class and I just wanted to sum it up with a nice goodbye…I suppose I should’ve said goodbye before it was time to leave. Even though I eventually got over it, it haunted me to the very last minute it could. Like a tirade given by some guy I didn’t even know, and my tremulous arms were at my side. Yes…I don’t like it when I can’t say goodbye or when others don’t say goodbye, that’s just part of who I am.

Karma is Life

The tearful thoughts,

the bottle is empty,

the hearts aren't pumping,

the family tree is shattered,

the tears are landing.

Life's not fair,

karma's a bitch...

what have I done?

The memory of the digital camera

is blank,

the slates are black

and the rims are colorful.

The mind is blank,

pictures in my father's room

spark my curiosity.

Who were they?

What were they like?

Were they nice?

When will they come visit?

Never...

Though my dad knew them,

I sure didn't,

my dad always refers to them.

"My dad worked really hard.

My mom made better sticky rice,

it was delicious."

13 years of life

with pictures.

No white hair,

no greeting,

no saying "hi grandma and grandpa"

just a life

of sorrow,

of regret to be born sooner,

the crying, choking Clementine calls them forth,

with a boo who

but no answer...

This is dedicated to the grandparents I never got to meet.

Not Just The Play

The substitute teacher handed out sheets of plays, “Hello to those of you that remember me…” blah blah blah. The real part is actually during the play, well more like the re-run of the play. The play started, and unfortunately I ended up being the “widow”…yay. Jaye is Lian, Mari is a narrator, Camila is a narrator too, and Yeji is the old lady (which I think is better than being the widow.) Oh look who my son is…Daniel. It wasn't that bad, but I'd prefer if he wasn't my son (no offence Daniel). He used to annoy me, like a lot, but now he stopped. Even though he stopped I'm still kind of scared of him, I'm not sure if I can fully be his friend.

Anyways so we’re playing in this play and yes...he’s my “son." Okay, so I got over the fact he was my “son” but suddenly something just happens. During the play I’m on the floor right? I’m supposed to be weak without my brocade from China, and then he starts kicking me. I'm sorry to say but I didn't think he was the kind of person kicks another person on the floor, I expected my friend to instead. (I won’t say names…*cough cough Jaye cough cough*) Then after he kicks me he also pats me back and he pulled me by my arm to add dramatic effect. I get the trying to add more dramatic effect, but I don't think he needed to add so much. I know I sound like I’m overreacting and that I’m giving a tirade, but actually I’m just expressing my opinion. Even if it’s “for a play” I still don’t want to be kicked, because it hurts. So I just want him to know this, and I hope that he stops doing these things, I believe that he'll stop if he reads this so thanks.

It's Better to Hit Them With a Fish

Why do people not tie their shoes when they have laces on them? So you try to kick the ball, and then your shoe has to come off and knock someone’s face. Sure, you were sorry but do you really understand what it’s like to have a weird stench hit your face? When your object that was on your feet, hits someone it’s just plain gross…especially in the face. It’s disgusting and I’m sure it’s caused the people to abhor from it. Some poor affable sucker has to get hit and is impelled to the floor. The interminable pain that they probably feel is worse than it looks, luckily most people aren't irascible. I’m not trying to sound like some weirdo manager giving a tirade but I’m trying to give some sage advice. TIE YOUR SHOES!

You leave your shoelace untied and you slip down the stairs from stepping on them. Uh huh, it wasn't your fault. Then whose fault was it? Some random person walks by and you blame them, as you yell at them while they entreat you to stop yelling. Your yelling reverberates through the halls and everyone comes out to see why. The haunted person with the memory of you screaming at them becomes despondent. John Doe gives up and decides to become recluse so he won’t get accused anymore.

You’re walking and trip on a couple of materials on your shoe. Yay! Now you’re on the floor and everyone’s staring at you like a freak. You’re tremulous eyes are watching everyone walk by…staring at you like some rapist. While you’re getting up some other chap falls in front of you and this profound feeling of knowing how it feels comes to your mind. I think I've proved my point; yes everything is perfect and peaceful while your shoelaces are tied. But when they’re untied…your life just goes amiss, so I've said it once and I’ll say it again. TIE YOUR SHOES BEFORE YOU WHACK SOMEONE OR BREAK A BONE! If your shoelace is untied…be prepared for a time of horror.

Glass Eyed Dolls

CAUTION! DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER IF YOU ARE SCARED OF DOLLS! Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Little dolls for girls…or should I say big dolls for girls? I hate them, I can’t stand them! The glow in their freakishly open eyes, the scary “I’m gonna kill you “smile, the weirdly neat dress with fringes and colors, and obviously the stories my friends tell. “My grandma has this doll with a glass eye, and it sits on a piano in the attic!” or “Once there was this girl, and she had this doll in the house right? And then it killed everyone…but it killed her first.” When I hear these kinds of stories it creeps me out, when people tell stories I can picture it in my mind which at this point, is not a good thing. Sure it’s helpful for when I read poems or pieces of literary writing but come on! When you’re talking about that kind of doll who would want to picture it?

I’ll admit that the baby ones that little kids play with is okay, but these dolls are like the total opposite! I remember I saw one somewhere (I forgot where though) and it was okay, but since my friends tell me scary stories about them I never want to see one again. I’m afraid that the doll might come to life and kill people, believe me…it’s a scary thought. If any of your friends start telling a scary story I would cover my ears if I were you.

Any More to Say?

I’m sitting at home with frizzy hair and my hands clasped on my forehead. What can I do? My backpack glares at me for forgetting my Spanish textbook at school. It’s the day I would normally be throwing my backpack down and kicking off my shoes. It was Friday. The day of happiness…but that day was the day of panic. I worry about what to do, can I ask a friend to get it and send type the page for me? Can I stop by school to get it? No…if she gets it then she’ll miss the afterschool bus. I guess I have to get it tomorrow, damn! Nobody goes to school on a Saturday! That’s just sad. Great.

My dad’s not feeling well today, my brother’s at his friend’s house, I don’t even know where my mom is. Yesterday when I forgot the textbook it was okay, because there was always today to get it. But no, I had to forget it…again. I’m a mess this year. I left my pencil in my math classroom inside a desk (luckily I looked for it and found it,) when I went to a friend’s house I brought everything back home except my thumb drive, I keep forgetting to put in the rubber band thingies for my braces, and what more can I say? I look at my blackberry and forget to reply sometimes, I lose stuff without even knowing it (especially stationary) and just earlier today I lost my headphone piece (silicon part so I can’t hear anything outside of my music) that my brother brought back when he came home. I rest my case, I look responsible and mature (maybe) but I’m really, really forgetful.

A Drive to Hell

The wheels squeak

as you pull out,

red words

flow out of two holes,

they increase in size until it pops.

You're the angriest a person could get,

you start crying

because you're that mad,

to top it all off

you mom starts slapping your leg.

In the front...wholesomely waiting and wishing,

wishing you were in the back seat,

lying down listening to music.

Blocking away the yelling and mocking her.

Lakes are forming,

birds are flying away,

deserts so dry

even cacti succumb to the heat.

The Earth shakes

in fear of a storm filled

with discipline and deprivation

from connection to civilization.

A crackle of a campfire in the distance,

you feel isolated and you can't get back.

You're on the other side,

there's no bridge,

there's no path to walk upon.

You're in the ocean...

lost.

Can you get back?

The storms are clearing,

the lakes are shining,

the Earth is stable.

People are building the bridge.

Legs are moving?

Check.

Hands are swinging?

Check.

Eyes are puffy?

Check.

Everything is coming together?

BIG check.

Dear Monica

Stephanie Huie

174 Pennsylvania Road

San Francisco, California

September 8, 2010

Dear Monica,

How are you doing? I’m writing because I haven’t heard from you for a while. This message is very imperative because you haven’t replied any of my emails, and we have lost all contact with each other. Right now I’m not sure where you are right now, so I shall ask my father to find out your location so I’ll have a place to send this to. How is the Barbie doll that I gave you? I believe it was a purple mermaid, part of the Mermaid collection. Though I don’t like Barbie anymore (and throw away all the dolls) I would like to know if you still like Barbie, so that maybe I can send you one for your birthday if you do. (Please tell me your birthday too, I most likely forgot it.)

I remember your happy disposition when we used to play Powerpuff Girls in the first grade. Our generation seems to be the newest in our family is it not? That means that we are the ones that will come up with new ideas, and hopefully we won’t be guile in our whole life. When we were playing during recess I remember the chubby guy who used to chase girls with “cooties.” I won’t say his name, because I want to keep it anonymous…and I don’t remember his name. Anyways I hope that you haven’t forgotten any of our precious time, don’t forget to reply!

Yours truly,

Stephanie

Strong or Scared?

It’s all so clear, I can remember the night so well. I’m in my car again, and I’m sitting in the middle separating my mom and Mari. We’re on the way to the cinema in Multi Plaza, where Mari and I were going to see a movie with a bunch of guys. (Obviously from our school.)We get out of the car and walk to the food court. Matthew jumps onto our shoulders and greets us friendly. The movie starts, and Mari’s holding a big tub of popcorn just like everyone else. (I’m the only one that didn’t want to buy anything…my dad’s fault.) Jacob and Max are talking and laughing like crazy, while Matthew and Daniel are laughing too. (What’s so funny about a guy being slashed?)

Obviously I didn’t want to watch this gruesome movie, but it was better than hanging out at the mall for two hours doing nothing. The movie was only half-way through and Mari’s cowering and hiding her face behind her hands. I pull up my legs and push my face into my knees; I couldn’t bare to watch that scene. Matthew had gone to buy me and Daniel a drink (mostly my fault because I asked him if he could buy one for me.) Max and Jacob were still bickering and laughing, which caused a man that was watching the movie tell us to be quite, and that the movie wasn’t funny (the man directed it to Mari because Max’s laugh was so girlish.) I couldn’t watch the rest of the movie without fear that the man would come back and kick us out or something. The movie ended and we all exited (I was so happy.) Outside the theater I was cold and scared, luckily Matthew cheered me up (poor Mari had no one to comfort her.) The guys left and Mari and I loitered around the mall buying smoothies and window shopping while waiting for our ride.

What’s my confession? Sometimes when I’m acting strong, I’m actually really scared (I had nightmares!)

My Own Phoenix

I sat in the basement working on my wooden phoenix, with my brother pulling my arm and my hands numb from all the splinters I must have gotten. The legs were crooked, the arms weren't even pulled out of the rectangle of wood, the body was all mixed up and placed in different layers, and the head was cracked with pieces of wood sticking out. Everything was a mess. My brother’s phoenix stood next to my cracked and shattered phoenix. It was all perfect, spic and span, not a thread of wood in sight, it all looked so graceful and well…perfect. I stared at his amazing phoenix and wondered “How did he do that? He didn't even want to do it.” I pouted and crossed my arms; I was comparing my crappy little chicken, and looking into his honorable majestic fire. All he had to do was paint it, paint it in the color of fire I had in my eyes. I continued with my chicken, and eventually I gave up.

The head was still shattered from the pull of force when I tore it out of the rectangle, the body was somewhat put together but most of it was still lingering on the table, the feet were like chickens. Not like birds (even though the feet still look the same) not like anything but a little chicken…maybe even a little chick. I stand up and start to pick up the shreds on the floor, small excluded extra pieces, the crying empty rectangle frame drenched with loneliness. What have I been doing all this time? Chasing my brother’s footsteps in the sand? No, I need to do this my way. I got back to the wooden block, and carved a beautiful phoenix. I realized I can’t follow my brother’s footsteps; all I can do is do it myself.

Stop Yelling at Me

I absolutely hate how people always yell at me. My dad, my mom, and even my brother!

I walked into the living room with my some-what muddy shoes stepping on my pants. (My pants are really long) My bag goes boom onto the couch when there's impact and I take out the shiny-silver circles. Some are in mint condition, some are in the dulling stage, and the rest are barely even silver. They're all mixed with each other shuffling in my pocket all day. I take out the stack of nickels and hold them in my hand.

"Hey! Look! Haha I have a stack of nickels!...Hello? Look at the nickels. Look at the nickels!" I shout at my brother while he's fidgeting with the belongings he has in his backpack. "OKAY LOOK! NO ONE GIVES A FLYING FAT ABOUT YOUR NICKELS OKAY? I. DON'T. *BEEP*. CARE! God." I walk away frightened and trembling to my laptop that's charging.

"Wow. Did I annoy him that much? He didn't have to yell like that. I mean I know he yells when he's on Skype, but that was soo different." I thought to myself. Walking to the desktop was the last thing I wanted to do (my desktop is near my brother's laptop and that's where he was) but I didn't want to go upstairs or move my laptop. A friend on BBM asked for my cellphone number (not anything special) and he called me soon after.

We talked for a while until my only sibling told me to go upstairs, and of course I listened.