Tuesday, June 16, 2015

ONE ACT PLAY:

“Currents of Future”


(The lights go up and the audience can see two women sitting down in a dinner booth. One is young, about 16, with medium length brown hair and blue/green eyes. The other looks to be about 80. She looks drained, almost dead, but very happy. She has very short gray hair, and deeply caring eyes. She looks like a much older version of the young woman with her. They seem to be bickering)


Old: Stop trying to change yourself so much. Conformity and comparison are the thieves of joy.

Young: Stop trying to be so “wise”; it’s annoying. Go to hell.

Old: I’m not trying to be anything. When you get to be my age, you’ll realize that there is no use in “trying” to be something. You either just have to do it, or not do it. Simple as that.

Young: I hope I never get to be as old as you.  Moth balls are not perfume of choice.

Old: Would you stop it? I'm your own grandmother, but you show no hesitation in treating me like I’ve done horrible wrongs by you.

Young: You’re right, I apologize.

(Silence lingers for quite some time)

Old: I want you to realize I know you even better than you know yourself, and you need to start embracing the power and beauty of your youth.

(The young woman laughs at this)

Old: I mean that, girls at your age are far too self-critical. You are not realizing that never again in your life will you be subject to so much freedom. And sure, sometimes it may seem like the limitations set in place by your parents are unfair, but I promise you, one day you’ll want these days back.

Young: I doubt that.

Old: Stop feeding such negative words to your brain. You would never say the things to another person that you say to yourself. These decisions that you’re making are affecting you in more ways than you’ll ever know.

Young: I doubt that.


Old: Shut the hell up. 
PICTURE PERFECT:

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This school is taking away every ounce of energy I had left. Day in and day out, the monotonous routine of walking up, dragging myself onto a muggy bus, and into a place I don’t want to be in, only to return home to do work I’m entirely unmotivated to do. People who haven’t spent a day of their lives as teachers have determined what I learn and when I learn it for years on end. For ten years, I have been cramming information into my mind that I am not interested in, in order to go to college and learn a trade that I may actually enjoy if I’m lucky. However, if people were educated rather than schooled, I may actually enjoy this place that I’m required, by law, to attend every day. Sure, this may just be a rant because I’m miserable about having to take finals, but in all actuality, school hasn’t brought me any form of joy in far too long.
                So now I’m stuck, sitting on this stinky bus, with one working headphone and a compelling urge to nap when I see it; a tear dripping down the face of one of my closest friends. She seemed distant all day, but I didn’t question it because I thought she was just avoiding bugging me in my bad mood. It turns out, she was cracking under the pressure too, but I was so caught up in myself to even realize. We’re all cracking up the pressure. We’re all counting down the days for this school year to end, and for the constant race of stress signals through our body’s to just STOP.

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They started off the ceremony by talking about what a beautiful life he lived. They said that he was always so open to embracing life in its entirety, and he never seemed to have a single fear. I knew better. I knew he was petrified, because he looked me in the eyes the night before he died and told me how he wasn’t ready to die. “I spent my whole life convincing myself that if you’re afraid of life that means you’re afraid of death. Truth be told, I was never afraid until I grasped the fact that in order to live, you must at some point die.” He spent that entire night describing to me in detail the way he imagines the sky will bend in the moments before it’s about to fall. I stayed up, listening to his words, absorbing his voice, imprinting the way in which his tongue rolled with every syllable so I could remember it for the rest of eternity. I would not allow myself to forget the sound of his voice, or the freckles on his cheekbones, or the way his eyes held such a deep passion for all things beautiful in this world, and he found beauty in everything.
I started towards the microphone to give a speech about how miraculous his life was. I stopped the words from coming. I couldn’t lie to these people and tell them that he died peacefully. He died scared, and in pain, because that’s the way life works. So instead, I say more towards the microphone than crowd before me, “He was a brave soul, and I hope that we find the courage to follow in his footsteps.” It wasn’t much, but it wasn’t a lie. I figured it would give them some sort of comfort that I knew I’d never be able to come across. He was beautiful in all the ways I never thought humans could be beautiful, and he was a truly eccentric person, with a soul far wiser and older than his years, but I didn’t know what to think anymore.
I still don’t know what to think of the afterlife, all I know is that when they were lowering his casket into the ground, I was not thinking of God. In those short but prolonged moments, I was not thinking of a superior being that would take his beautiful soul and carry it off into the glory it deserves. I was thinking that the eyes I loved so much were cold, and dead, and the skin I once touched was now dull and gray. I do not know what became of him. All I know is that no matter how hard I try, I will never forget his final words. “I’m not ready.”



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At the meager age of eight years old, we deemed that stop sign ours. It sat at the corner that connected our two busy streets, dividing us from the hustle and bustle of the road. On our walks to elementary school with our mom’s we’d both admire that giant red octagon. It towered over our heads in all its glorious and statuesque beauty. We decided that one day, when we were tall enough to reach it, we would sign our names at the very bottom in small lettering, because we wouldn’t want it to be noticeable and make the town replace it.
Around the age of twelve, we decided we had to make a huge deal out of our graffiti, and sign our names in big lettering and neon paint all over the sign. But we wouldn’t want to put our last names, because we wouldn’t want to cops to know it was us.
Then, at fourteen or so, we started to realize that there was so much unhappiness in this world, and we wanted nothing more than to inspire people. So we decided that, if we ever did get the growth spurts that would allow us to reach the top, we would make it say “Don’t STOP Believein’”. We thought that was the best plan yet until we were
16. We were still in love with the idea we had when we were fourteen, except, this time, we decided we would sign our names. First and last, so that the cops would know who it was, because we were just so full of teenage angst. Our hopeless mindsets told us there would never be another way to leave out mark on this world. “We will never stay in this town. We can’t be tied down.” So, we played our pop punk and brainstormed how and when we’d sneak out to paint our way out of this sleepy town.
On our graduation night at 18 years old, we set out on our journey at 1 am. We never did get those growth spurts, so we stood in the truck-bed of your boyfriends pickup and began our masterpiece. We didn’t stick to the plan we’d been brainstorming for years because you didn’t get into the college of your dreams, and I was questioning what I’d major in. Instead we artfully crafted “We will never STOP.”
I still smile every time I pass it on my way to drop my kids off at school.



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“Your grandmother used to love these, you know.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, when I was a kid she and I used to go on really long walks when they came out to pick as many as possible, then we’d blow them all out at once.”
And ever since that day, I decided I wanted a dandelion tattoo. There was no particular reason for it, I just really liked that day. My mom and I were sitting in my backyard on an unusually windy day, and we watched as the seeds danced through the air. They were weightless beautiful things, and it seemed that everyone had their own reason for loving them. My friend Julia told me her Nana used to tell her that they were suffering souls finally relief and pure joy. My friend Hannah always says that every time they glide off their steams, it’s a symbol of someone falling in love. My next door neighbor always hated that the one’s we blew off their steams planted too many seedlings for the “ugly weeds” to grow in his yard, but I never really liked him anyways.



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The first experience I ever had with Chinese wishing lanterns was after my Uncle Rick’s funeral. We all wrote our favorite memories with him on the thin paper, and sent it off from my cousin’s back porch. I was ten and thought it was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
A few years later, my dad bought ten of them off Amazon for New Year’s Eve. I saved all but one of mine, so I could save them for special occasions.
I lit one off before my first day of freshman year. It caught fire, got stuck in a tree, and we had to put it out with a hose. It ended up as a charcoal wish that once was lying in the middle of my backyard.
The year following that, I only lit off one or two. I couldn’t decide if that was because I didn’t have many special things happening in my life, or if I was just being too picky about what was special, and what wasn’t.
Then, on my brothers graduation night, I set off the remainder of the lanterns with a group of close friends, because in that day I realized, the most special things I’d ever experienced we were when I was making other people happy.



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                We stumbled home from the beach at the time of night that everything seems to become a much deeper kind of quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you question your entire existence. That’s why it was so nice to have the three of them with me. We spent the short walk home talking about how on this night, the moon looked smaller than usual, as if it flew away us. But, my oh my, the stars were brilliant. I must have seen at least thirty shooting stars that night, and I ran out of wishes far too fast, but I didn’t mind because I had never been happier.

                Attempting to make as little noise as possible, we carried our beach blankets up the front steps in an effort to make as little noise as possible. We failed miserably in this department, and my aunt stirred in her drunken slumber on the couch, but it was never enough to get her up. We tiptoed to our beds and sat in silence. We all knew the others weren’t asleep, but we stayed silent. Reflecting in each other’s company, we had never felt more at home than in this rental. 

Monday, June 1, 2015


We did not fear the storm. We fled from our dark, curtain drawn bedrooms and rushed to the front porch. Our wooden rocking chairs awaited our arrival. The gutters welcomed the cool rain, and within minutes our street had become a rushing river of rain water. Ground to sky lightning strikes exploded around us. Thunder rolled and roared and clapped. The storm showed no mercy. The sky had been cracked open, and now there was no turning back. 

Dogs were barking, children were screaming and crying. Animals attempted to find safety. The world around us was preoccupied by the commotion. We sat back. We could do nothing but let the disaster reek it's havoc. 

The storm was moving closer now. These felt like my last moments. I was watching as the storm ferociously rolled in.  The clouds seemed to fold in on one another, competing to hold incredible strongholds of electrical currents. Within these bright light shows lied the power to turn someone towards an eternity of darkness. 

As the clouds grew darker and darker, we were the only one's who remained outside. We continued to bask in the beauty of such destruction. The radio was telling us to get inside but we couldn't. Tornado's were touching down in multiple places now. Ripping up deep roots of tree's alive for hundreds of years. 

We watched as our neighborhood fell apart. We sat as bushes flew towards us. We watched until we couldn't watch anymore. We watched until our eyes were closed forever. We watched as we floated into weightless night. We watched until the storm diminished. We watched until the storms in our minds were through. 

Thursday, May 28, 2015

Write about something ugly and find beauty in it:


Brains are incredibly ugly. They’re slimy, grotesque things that most sane people would never wish to touch. However, that’s okay, because whilst encapsulated in our thick craniums, they’re not tangible due to their incredibly fragility. Understandable, considering they hold the entire basis for human life. They have to capability to define who you are as a human being. Are you creative or more analytical and focused on facts? The answer to that question lies in the feeble, heinous structure of your brain. This astonishing organ is capable of storing the unforgettable stories of an entire lifetime, but is still remarkably adaptable to change. The beauty of such an ugly thing lies within, just like everything else in this vast world. 

Thursday, May 21, 2015

The cold, dense air burned my throat as the bullets rang passed my ears. I have scarcely missed six potentially fatal shots today. A bullet shell drops at my feet. It hits the hard ground hard and makes a subtle chime. More fall, and all I can think of is the wind chimes in the summer time on my front porch. My mom is cooking in the kitchen, and my father is lecturing me that I need to get my life together.
“Maybe you should stop being such a coward, and just enlist already.”
I only enrolled so my father would finally be proud of me. I regret this decision more than anything else in all my life. I can’t believe I could be so stupid. No matter what I do, I know he’ll never look at me with the proud glow in his eyes the way I've seen my friends dad’s look at their sons. I know he’ll never respect my wishes. No matter what I do, he’ll never be happy with the progress I've made in life. He’ll only respect me after I die “bravely.”
In my mind though, war is for cowards. It’s for people who don’t wish to sort out their problems in logical ways, but rather just use violence as means for “winning”. Thinking of this is making my mind explode with thoughts as if it's a grenade.
“GRENADE!”
I need to get out of this place. My thoughts are racing faster than thick lead through these powerful guns. These so called enemies are my friends. I need them to be my friends. I need someone new and different to talk to. I need perspective from the other side. I want to know how I can help these young, civilian soldiers when I get out of here. I want to quit and join the Peace Corps. It’s been a dream of mine since before I can remember.
Get me out of here. I’m sorry father I can’t do this anymore.
I dart from the trenches. “PRIVATE. GET BACK HERE.” Where is here? There is no here. There can’t be. I don’t want to be alive. I charge to the enemy side. Nothing can stop me now. Nothing except a young boy, about eight, aiming a gun towards me. He’s standing in front of an older woman holding a small child.
“I”M NOT A THREAT. I WILL GET YOU OUT OF HERE!”
He fires. My left shoulder is bleeding. It feels like the time I was helping my dad build the tree house in the backyard. I fell and dislocated my shoulder.
“Get up and be a man.” My father said that to me a lot.


“PLEASE GET UP PHIL! I CAN’T LOSE YOU NOW!”
I can hear my friend, George, screaming my name. He needs help. The other side is closing in. Closer. Closer.
Their shooting George at close range now. He has no way out. I must act fast if I want my best friend to live another day.
I fire my gun. I see a tall, tan man dressed in the other sides uniform drop to the ground. A bullet directly between his eyes. He’s gone. A bullet I shot. He is dead. I have never felt more alive. Exhilarated, I fire my weapon again.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Four more men on the ground.
Again.
Again.
I have so much power in my hands.

I can’t stop. Not now. I’m alive. “Dad, I’m a hero.” I’m a hero.