The day after tomorrow, this will be all over. The waiting, the anxiety, the impatience will end. I have paced my room nearly every minute of every day, waiting...waiting. But, it will soon be all over.
I cannot imagine how I will feel. Will it be like the first time, or even the second? I highly doubt it. The first was special, sent a tingle up and down me when it arrived. The second was nearly as powerful, but still less so.
So, it wan't be like that. But, I still cannot wait.
I have He-Man and Battlecat.
I have...
"It was a cold and stormy night..." I read as I began to read another mystery novel. A lot of stories begin with this phrase/description of the scenery. Whenever I read it, I don't imagine something bad is going to happen because I have read it many times. But rather, if the opening scene was to describe a more creative and original scene I may be more interested. These are the thoughts that roam through my head as I try to do the reading assignment for my high school literary class. It's impossible to focus when you cannot read through...
I saw the thing. It was preserved in the glass case, the only one of its kind. So faithfully had the curators touched it, applied the special fluids, made sure that never again, never again would it be forgotten. It had been once before, after all. After all, memory is a sieve. And this was memory itself. It shouldn't have been forgotten.
I can't remember the thing itself especially now. I suppose that's expected. My memory's not special in anyway, no, not at all. It doesn't matter, anyways, just that it was a record, so that people wouldn't forget, wouldn't...
Once, in Beijing, a young girl in a red gown huddled in a doorway.
"Are you my mom?" she would ask to the passersby.
Some people would stop and inquire if she was lost, but she would just shake her head.
Some people would offer to take the girl with them to the police, but she would just run away down a narrow alley where they couldn't follow.
Most people would just ignore her and her perfect, shining red gown, taking her for some unlucky trickster.
But one day, a young woman came down the street, her eyes veiled in...
The lamp wouldn't turn on. She must have damaged it when she fell and she kicked the small wooden table it rested on in frustration. "Damnit!" she whispered to the empty room. "Damn, damn, damn!" Then she felt ridiculous. Imagine throwing a tantrum like that when she had other things to do, such as search the room, find the treasure, get out with all her bodily organs in tact... That sort of thing.
Not daring to switch on the main light and not able to use the lamp, she pulled her lighter from her pocket and flicked it on. There...
There was blood on my pillow. A lot of blood. A ton of blood. Where did it come from? It seemed to be dripping from somewhere. I looked up. The celing was dry. I looked around, I felt my own face, hair, ears, nose...all dry. What the h*ll was going on? Then, I heard something. A step. Two steps. Steps moving across the wood floor near the staircase downstairs. Was this the source of the blood? Was it the cause of the blood? Am I next? I was not injured, but I was still terrifyed. Suddenly, something came bounding around...
Kenya. She said her name was Kenya.
And then she laughed. I couldn't hear it, not over the music in the bar, not over the shouting of everyone around us. But I saw the laugh, starting in her stomach, and traveling up and out of her mouth.
She leaned closer and said that her parents had grown up with Black Power and Africa awareness, and decided to name her Kenya. That they had grounded her the first time she straightened her hair.
Her voice, the part of her voice I could hear, had a huskiness to it that really appealed...
Gigantic.
That was the only way she could describe it. A gigantic mistake.
He had seemed like an excellent choice. A little daring, a little dangerous, but still good-looking. Still smart. Law-school bound and blonde, he could have been taken home.
Waking up in an historic apartment in the Highlands the morning after the Kentucky Derby was romantic. Especially on such a sunny. He pointed out the dog walkers while still wrapped up in white sheets.
She should have never said she knew what she was doing.
Deluxe. I ordered a deluxe meal. Where, you might be wondering? Not McDonalds. Not BK. Not Whataburger. Not Chick-fil-a. No, I was trying a new restauranut down on 57th street, you know, in the bad part of town. Normally, I don't venture out that way to often. However, my favorite comic book store recently located to 55th street, just two streets over from this new place. So, after I bouight the newest copies of Batman, X-Men, and Green Martians From Outer Space, I went over to the new restauranut. It was called "Tom's Eatery". "Hmmm....", I thought to myself, "Thsi...
When I see these flowers, and this man standing here (that's me, by the way), and I see all the men with guns walking behind me, I'm supposed to say that the flowers remind me of a lady. I'm supposed to taste the dust in my mouth, remember my comrades who gave their lives, understand the difference between pride and loyalty, duty and identity.
Mostly, I remember not knowing where I stood with any of these things; thinking that this was the process to figuring it out.
We're all figuring it out, aren't we? To know where you stand is...