Anastasia is a girl who does not fear a thing. She is Asian-American, from Detroit, but her heart and living mind will always be in California. Her dead mind will relax under the expectation of her mother and father. To marry, to bear children. Her family name becoming nonexistent to strangers, those who recently knew the Mrs., and just revived by through the collection of old school papers. "I will be a doctor," they say. "I'm a star," the jagged words read. It is not as if they mock her, ridicule her for what she has chosen to do by tradition; but she is embarrassed to realize how far she has fallen from imagination. Anatasia could have been anything. She could have freed the world of disease. Be stuck in a supermarket in Spain by losing her passport and documentations whilst there for study. Anastasia could have been anything, I tell you. But married off and pregnant, the mother and child of those who will no longer be thought of as strangers, business as usual Anastasia, won't squeak a peep.
For the lost at heart. No, really, I mean the surgeons.
Victor is a boy, and Victor loves to play with toys. "Leave Victor alone," you'll hear them say.
"Vincent is Victor's friend, and they have aged well together!" Victor will never forget Vincent because he is a friend who has never rallied against him, family who has never focused more of the worse than the good, and neither an enemy who could find the hours in a day to befriend greedily. Victor is a boy, and Victor is rich. Not by wealth of the pocket alone, but in his burgeoning mind. The fleshy sponge where knowledge is not calculated because not even the flaws of mental health can establish just how one will retain what they know and learn what they did not know. Speech can be a flaw itself, and that is why Victor imagines. Should Victor let his imagination go he will not be satisfied with his life anymore, and though he will not be mocked for continuing to sail his boat atop the dirty bath water of his football practice sweat, he will wonder where his talent has gone. The fridge is not a spaceship, the drawers are not talking people. "He has grown," the individuals who have let go, or have never had, this imagination will say. Victor has grown from a boy to a young gentleman, wild imagination to polite reality. Only reality is not so polite. And Victor will never be so sweet as he were in his boyhood.
Skulls and bones are what really put Lauryn off. Reading a story about skulls and bones, hanging flesh and rotting hearts through the unbearable intake of thought that includes love and life.
Love and life. The words together, especially with and included, make Lauryn think silently to herself. Yet Lauryn's thoughts are loud, often speaking to herself under her breath. Like a person who looks upon a film poster, the paper glistening from standing still in the sky though the city wind rattles the material and causes it to make thunderous noises. "Love and life," she repeats, "are skull and bones." Rather than a poster or a book, magazine or a journal, the letters are printed in the side of her brain that develops madness and hate. She cannot stop herself. Lauryn does not know why her hate is so thorough and uncalled for. Somewhere, deep inside, perhaps at the end of the throat where it meets the stomach in the chest, her feelings of hate stir in confusion. The signals are sent to her brain, and the mind receives them and cannot comprehend. This makes Lauryn sick. Having a subject to hate without knowing why she hates them. She thinks to herself, "maybe if I liked them, I would be better." And liking the pair of words skull and bones, love and life, come to her as good options but with swiftness they are knocked down and she repeatedly hates them again. It is a silent battle within her, and she cannot stop loving it. Her passion is ardent, and she will never stop and keep her tongue to be so sweet with words. Salty is foul language. Lauryn does not understand herself, and she does not understand her hate. Hate is not a word to be picked a part and said by someone, 'Here, this is what hate is.' Hate comes in forms, people, places, sights and smells. Lauryn is a country, she is self-congratulatory and superior by thinking the universal cliches will not be part of her language. Her religion never stained by following the traditions of others. She will grow to teach her children to hate love and life the way she does, or she will secretly hide this from her spouse and friends. No one will know Lauryn's hate better than Lauryn, and even Lauryn does not know where to begin with it.
Message (Not for the story): Procrastination will never get you anywhere.
Joanie baked enough cookies for her family everyday, she was unselfish and never thought of her work as more than she could take. She was no expert, being bound to a heavy wheelchair at her small age of nine. Joanie was ultimately skilled though, at baking, and no one could question what they believed God had given her. "Oh Joanie, make us sugar cookies!" They would call, and Joanie would nod and write the request on her list of recipes and special treats. Mainly in the morning she would have to wait for her mother to help bathe her, for her legs were lame but her arms were just as a strong as her mind so it was not hard to help out. Afterward her father would teach her school lessons in the living room, for her school in the country was far but her will to learn was just as a strong as her mind so it was not hard to gain knowledge. Then her brothers would play with her and softly toss her the ball, for her reach could not catch it if it went over her head but her strike when throwing it back was powerful so it was not hard to keep them entertained. In the afternoon Joanie would enter the kitchen, set out all the material for baking, and prepare the cookies by herself. She thought, "What lovely family I have," and would set them in the bottom oven and make the cookies daily. A handicap does hinder you, a handicap does not control you, but if you chose to be like nine-year-old Joanie, controlling it and not letting it control you, you can make yourself happy.
Peter Was a Liver SENT TO A FRIEND - 9:00 AM - 3/5/2010
The way he looked into the water reminded the ghost of the body he recently left. It was not that the ghost looked the same, or kept the same longing look for the river; rather, the way he crawled up to stare at the lakeside caused him to remember the dear existence of his body. The ghost did not miss flesh, as touch and sensation remained the same, enabled to rip his fingers into the ground until the soil tore and slipped beneath his nails. The ghost hung his body above the water, still sticking his fingers into the dirt where he once knew warmth and responsibility. Every matter about him was dead and death. The body died to stay in death forever. The ghost continued to hover over, seeing the way striped clothing showed movement in the water where it was still on top. The ghost blinked. The ghost pretended breath. The body did not move. The hours were drowned in his milk-shaded eyes. A new beauty in the time of day sprung above the clouds, and was blocked by millions of particles gathered in no one's mourning. He could feel no tire in his bones which were not permissible to strength. It would take more than a falling berry from the branches above to create reaction in the marrow. Three weeks spilled out of earth, the ghost remained at the river. And people spoke stories of this ghost, and they made rumors about supernatural ability. But they never found Peter's body like Peter's ghost did.
The message I attached to the story above, in an email:No one else cares to read what I write, therefore I wrote you this as a way to say thank you. Also because I'm in my room and my roommate's boyfriend has no shirt on. It'll take my mind off the irritation. (Update: My roommate is sleeping and I'm listening to Ulrich Schnauss. Ha. This has also been in my drafts for more than two weeks I suppose. A little over I suppose.)