The words this week were bait, jump, and victim. Here's my take.
I love fiction.
I run this place.
Sure, in the brochure, Galton’s Academy for Troubled Youth seems to be quite the peaceful institution. Rolling green hills, serene walkways…dude, it looks like something out of a retirement home advertisement. You know, those vibrant sunsets and the golf courses and the old people swimming in Olympic pools even though their arthritis should’ve incapacitated them by now? That’s my school. Complete with the old people and pools.
But that‘s about where the truth ends. The administrators and teachers only think they have control over us because we let them. If they think we’re reforming ourselves into little, compliant robots fit for society, they’ll be much more apt to turn the other cheek when one of us comes doesn’t show up for class, or something petty like that. As long as we don’t do something stupid, and allow ourselves to get caught, we’re okay.
And of all us little troublemakers, I’m the one people should really be afraid of. And I’m not saying that because I like to brag; bragging is for people who can’t back their crap up. You know why I got sent here? I didn’t kill anybody, let’s get that straight. I ain’t no killer. Nah, armed robbery. I took my dad’s .45 caliber and headed out to my step-mom’s bank. I held up the place---nobody expected the kid in a suit, talking professional-like. Cops weren’t called or nothing. I struck a deal beforehand, they give me a thirty minute head start, and I’d but the weapon away. I tell you, those tellers. They’re crooked.
Today was an interesting day. See, us Galton kids don’t get to leave, even in the summer. We’re here all year ‘round, and it sucks. It sucks a lot. Mostly because the kids here are here for petty crap, like punching a teacher in the face or something equally stupid. So, there we were, me and my boys. Dan, Grant, and Timothy. They were probably the only people here who weren’t just angst-y teens inspired by that emo band My Chemical One-Night-Stand or some stupid crap like that. So, I chose to befriend them rather than make their lives a living hell. Because, really, we weren’t bad kids. Misguided, yes. Desperate? Completely. But bad? No.
I needed the money, but I’m not even old enough to apply for a job. I’m just thirteen. Why did I need it? My mom had cancer. Leukemia. And her insurance sucked, so she couldn’t pay for it. I couldn’t get enough cash money, but any little bit would help. That’s all I wanted. I didn’t care about dime bags, or coke or the newest crap Apple came out with. I wanted my mom to live. I loved her. Only her. But I did the wrong thing. And now I’m stuck here on court orders. I couldn’t go to her funeral.
Dan…he’s messed up in the head. Comes from a bad hood; it makes Compton look like the O.C. He saw his parents and baby sister shot. Apparently Dan’s dad dealt in the drug scene, but he didn’t do anything outright illegal. Just covered the dealer’s tracks for him. And some junkie somehow found his dad…took them all out. Dan managed to escape and get out of that hood. He was tossed around foster homes, until he did something really stupid. He didn’t just spread around a bomb threat, he actually planted one in his freshman year. Now he’s here.
Grant probably had the best childhood of us. I think he just got mixed up--wrong place at the wrong time, that sort of thing. He lived in a preppy suburb, and was the all-American…the kind of kid that crapped his pants if I came around. He went to a bonfire party one night, they were doing lots of drugs. Nothing crazy, mostly weed and cocaine. His older brother made him carry a dime bag in his pocket for later. Grant didn’t want it. But when the party got busted, he got taken in for possession, ended up here. I think something’s gonna go down when Grant gets out. He’s an angry kid.
Timothy. What can I say about this kid? The oldest of us at seventeen, and quite possibly the least deserving to be here. Dan, Grant, and I did the crimes we were accused of. Timothy insists he’s innocent. In fact, he almost got off. The Juvenile Court prosecutor said so…that they couldn’t make a case. He was accused of assaulting some dumb chick. Timothy swears to God he’s only seen her once--at a graduation party. He doesn’t know where this came from. I’m thinking it’s ‘cause the chick needed a scapegoat for her…activities. Because the evidence against him was circumstantial at best, but the girl’s dad was a regular patron of the court system, donating and all kinds of fancy crap, Timothy got sent here. At least he won’t have to register.
“Dude. Jeremy. I think we got one,” Grant grins, shaking my shoulder to get my attention.
Out of boredom, we’d taken to targeting a kid, possibly beating the crap out of him. It all depended on our mood. Today’s no different. And the kid, our intended victim, looked perfect for a beat down. Five feet seven inches, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds.
“What’s he in for?” I ask, scoping our potential victim. He tends to keep to himself--already a bad sign.
Timothy shrugs. “He like beat the living daylights out of his mother and twin sister.”
My eyes narrow. Maybe it’s just the fact that I don’t have a mother anymore, but it strikes me as particularly…evil. He deserves what he’s about to get. I catcall him, telling him he’s a bloody coward for beating on his mother and sister, among other things that ain’t fitting of nobody to say. I challenge him to jump for the bait.
He does. Punches me square in the jaw. The four of us gang up.
He’s as good as done.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Sunday Scribblings--Source
I've been on holiday these past few weeks, so I'm just getting back into writing. I decided to take a break from Aria/Castor temporarily. Here's my Sunday Scribblings prompt:
I’ve never been a social person. I’ve been content to keep to myself, my books, my computers, and my imagination. They were the source of my happiness in life. And for a while, that’s what I was. Completely comfortable and happy with just myself. I had enough characters I wrote about to be my friends. And if they were ever lacking, I could read my troubles away and make friends across centuries, oceans, and dimensions. Yeah, while other kids were attending birthday parties and battling with water balloons, I was attending magical feasts and fighting off evil factions with a swords and crossbows. I never needed anybody.
Until I met you. The new kid.
You were the only other person I’d given more than a few minutes thought to. What placed you apart from the others was the fact that you--you actually reached out to me. Unlike the others, who’ve known me since kindergarten; you weren’t content letting me just pass by. You actually wanted to talk to me. Me. I realized soon what I’d been missing after you and I became friends.
We spent so much time together, my parents were slightly concerned. I’d spend afternoons at your house, and we’d talk, or watch television, or play video games. I never stayed the night though, being a girl and everything. I kept my guard up---I thought this friendship would last three weeks, tops. But it lasted much longer, and our friendship was effortless.
In high school, things changed. We became closer. One night when we were at my house watching a crappy historical movie, you leaned over. You kissed me. I was shocked. Happy, ecstatic, even. But shocked. I never thought I’d have friends. I had accepted that. In fact, I managed to be happy. But the moment when our lips touched, hesitantly at first, then more sure of ourselves…. Things were going crazy. I wasn’t in control anymore. And I did the unthinkable. I kissed you back. My rational, orderly life had been scattered. My heart took over. I was brain dead.
School changed dramatically. We arrived at school together, and as we entered the cafeteria, you grabbed my hand and led me to a table to await the morning bell. They watched in disbelief. Us, be together, they thought. The quiet, insecure girl, and the generally charming, gregarious boy? Impossible.
But we were so happy. We were together throughout high school while they were switching relationships like underwear. We even planned on going to college together. But never once did I let my guard down. And when you told me you loved me--I dodged the question.
And to think, I thought it would be temporary.
I was right.
It didn’t last. I just couldn’t open up to you any more than I had. I fell so hard from that. It completely shattered me, once I considered everything. When you think with your heart there isn’t a thing you can’t see. I tried to get over it by being angry at you. I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I then tried to tell you that I didn’t care. It was nothing. You knew I was lying.
I’m just a kid, like you. I borrow phrases from dog-eared pages. My story is no different, I’ve just changed the name. I know you think you know me. But my eyes are doors that keep you out from things I don’t want you to know…you wanna know why I couldn’t tell you how I felt? It wasn’t because I didn’t return the feelings, because trust me, I felt the same way. I loved you, Noel. I did. I still do. No, not loving you wasn’t the reason.
I was frightened of what I’d find in your eyes.
I’ve never been a social person. I’ve been content to keep to myself, my books, my computers, and my imagination. They were the source of my happiness in life. And for a while, that’s what I was. Completely comfortable and happy with just myself. I had enough characters I wrote about to be my friends. And if they were ever lacking, I could read my troubles away and make friends across centuries, oceans, and dimensions. Yeah, while other kids were attending birthday parties and battling with water balloons, I was attending magical feasts and fighting off evil factions with a swords and crossbows. I never needed anybody.
Until I met you. The new kid.
You were the only other person I’d given more than a few minutes thought to. What placed you apart from the others was the fact that you--you actually reached out to me. Unlike the others, who’ve known me since kindergarten; you weren’t content letting me just pass by. You actually wanted to talk to me. Me. I realized soon what I’d been missing after you and I became friends.
We spent so much time together, my parents were slightly concerned. I’d spend afternoons at your house, and we’d talk, or watch television, or play video games. I never stayed the night though, being a girl and everything. I kept my guard up---I thought this friendship would last three weeks, tops. But it lasted much longer, and our friendship was effortless.
In high school, things changed. We became closer. One night when we were at my house watching a crappy historical movie, you leaned over. You kissed me. I was shocked. Happy, ecstatic, even. But shocked. I never thought I’d have friends. I had accepted that. In fact, I managed to be happy. But the moment when our lips touched, hesitantly at first, then more sure of ourselves…. Things were going crazy. I wasn’t in control anymore. And I did the unthinkable. I kissed you back. My rational, orderly life had been scattered. My heart took over. I was brain dead.
School changed dramatically. We arrived at school together, and as we entered the cafeteria, you grabbed my hand and led me to a table to await the morning bell. They watched in disbelief. Us, be together, they thought. The quiet, insecure girl, and the generally charming, gregarious boy? Impossible.
But we were so happy. We were together throughout high school while they were switching relationships like underwear. We even planned on going to college together. But never once did I let my guard down. And when you told me you loved me--I dodged the question.
And to think, I thought it would be temporary.
I was right.
It didn’t last. I just couldn’t open up to you any more than I had. I fell so hard from that. It completely shattered me, once I considered everything. When you think with your heart there isn’t a thing you can’t see. I tried to get over it by being angry at you. I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I then tried to tell you that I didn’t care. It was nothing. You knew I was lying.
I’m just a kid, like you. I borrow phrases from dog-eared pages. My story is no different, I’ve just changed the name. I know you think you know me. But my eyes are doors that keep you out from things I don’t want you to know…you wanna know why I couldn’t tell you how I felt? It wasn’t because I didn’t return the feelings, because trust me, I felt the same way. I loved you, Noel. I did. I still do. No, not loving you wasn’t the reason.
I was frightened of what I’d find in your eyes.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
#222-Me
I've been beyond busy lately! And I'm liking it quite a lot, though by the time I am free, I am so tired I don't feel like writing. Or I'm occupied by JulNoWriMo. But I managed this today. : )
My name is Aria. I’m eleven years old, and I’m the shortest kid my age. I was born a Vossnian, which is the biggest sin anyone can commit in Desmonda. To top it off, I’m a girl. Basically, I’m a burden on my fellow Vossnians, and a blight to Desmondans.
But instead of being concerned with games, studies, and curfew, I’ve got something huge to deal with. Last week, I was captured by Desmondan officials. I was taken to the wilderness and left to die by wild animal attack. Strangely enough, it didn’t happen. Instead, I met up with my great friend Castor. He’d been sent to die as well, the week before me.
He didn’t die either.
Instead, he found this tribe, a group of resistant people: the fabled Burkharts. Known for their strength, generosity, and immense nosey tendencies, they seem to be our only option for survival. I don’t know how they plan on making us repay them for their hospitality; I’m assuming I’ll become someone’s servant and I expect Castor will be a storyteller, just like in our old town.
Today, we met this man, his name is Seamus. He is the chief of these people, and he’s absolutely gigantic! I mean, he’s not fat, he’s just really tall. He and Castor spoke for a while, I don’t remember what about. I just rested my chin on my hand and daydreamt. I dreamt of Mama and Dad again. I miss them, sometimes. But I can’t write about that.
It’s not important anymore.
I got this notebook and pen from a nice lady; she told me to have fun and draw some pictures to pass the time. It was nice of her, but I don’t like to draw. I’m a terrible artist. My people always look like balloons on strings with squiggles drawn on the balloon part. I prefer to write. Though I’m not creative. So I just write about my surroundings, or whatever is on my mind. And right now, what’s on my mind is what’s going to happen to me.
Castor says the Burkharts haven’t granted us asylum yet, whatever that means. So I have to stay in this tent until he comes back. Which is terrible, because there are so many kids out there, just playing around. I want to play too. But I can’t. I’m not a Burkhart.
Will anyone ever accept me for who I am?
My name is Aria. I’m eleven years old, and I’m the shortest kid my age. I was born a Vossnian, which is the biggest sin anyone can commit in Desmonda. To top it off, I’m a girl. Basically, I’m a burden on my fellow Vossnians, and a blight to Desmondans.
But instead of being concerned with games, studies, and curfew, I’ve got something huge to deal with. Last week, I was captured by Desmondan officials. I was taken to the wilderness and left to die by wild animal attack. Strangely enough, it didn’t happen. Instead, I met up with my great friend Castor. He’d been sent to die as well, the week before me.
He didn’t die either.
Instead, he found this tribe, a group of resistant people: the fabled Burkharts. Known for their strength, generosity, and immense nosey tendencies, they seem to be our only option for survival. I don’t know how they plan on making us repay them for their hospitality; I’m assuming I’ll become someone’s servant and I expect Castor will be a storyteller, just like in our old town.
Today, we met this man, his name is Seamus. He is the chief of these people, and he’s absolutely gigantic! I mean, he’s not fat, he’s just really tall. He and Castor spoke for a while, I don’t remember what about. I just rested my chin on my hand and daydreamt. I dreamt of Mama and Dad again. I miss them, sometimes. But I can’t write about that.
It’s not important anymore.
I got this notebook and pen from a nice lady; she told me to have fun and draw some pictures to pass the time. It was nice of her, but I don’t like to draw. I’m a terrible artist. My people always look like balloons on strings with squiggles drawn on the balloon part. I prefer to write. Though I’m not creative. So I just write about my surroundings, or whatever is on my mind. And right now, what’s on my mind is what’s going to happen to me.
Castor says the Burkharts haven’t granted us asylum yet, whatever that means. So I have to stay in this tent until he comes back. Which is terrible, because there are so many kids out there, just playing around. I want to play too. But I can’t. I’m not a Burkhart.
Will anyone ever accept me for who I am?
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