Last one guys, I swear

I know I'm committing the repeat offense of posting already-written works because I don't have enough to say, but I promise, this is the LAST ONE. There WILL be a proper post, with stolen dialogue and everything, next time. And besides, wouldn't you rather I post short stories and whatnot than not blog at all? ;)

Happy 4th of July, everyone! :)

~4^th of July weekend 2011~

It’s nearly ten o’clock but the sky isn’t quite dark yet,

the sunset obscured by dark-purple clouds

like sinister cotton candy.

I sit on the front porch with my father,

both of us barefoot,

breathing in the humid post-storm air

as we watch the fireworks.

It’s cooled considerably since noon,

when we went into the backyard

and threw ourselves into the pool headfirst,

ignoring the cloudy water and slimy bottom.

“It’s not making chlorine,” my mother warned us.

But she came in too, because it was so

unbearably, ridiculously, incredibly

almost surprisingly hot.

We laid on pool loungers that wouldn’t inflate properly,

sweating through our sunscreen,

until we couldn’t bear it any longer and flipped into the water.

After a dinner of leftovers, my parents went for a walk

while I sat in the kitchen

and watched the sunset

and read books, lots of books,

the smell of my mother’s homemade pound cake filling the house.

Now I sit on the porch with Dad

watching, waiting, but not knowing what I’m waiting for.

“Let’s go for a walk,” I say, and stand up.

He takes my hand and we walk across the wet grass

and into the street.

Fireworks burst all around us,

some of them smaller ones that shoot straight into the sky like comets,

others bigger and more explosive,

bursting on impact and letting loose showers of sparks and stars.

Other than the fireworks, this could be any other night.

But on any other night I would hate my neighborhood,

I would be embarrassed to bring my friends here,

to this deceptively perfect place, this Camazotz of sorts,

this place where we pretend bad things don’t exist.

Tonight I don’t care.

Tonight, I walk through the streets

holding my father’s hand

and wondering if maybe, just maybe,

I should have given this town a chance.

Any Resemblance Is Completely Coincidental (MORE serious [S-word])

This is a piece of short fiction that I wrote for my final project in Writing About War.

*clears throat*

This is a piece of fiction. Any resemblance to events or to persons living or dead is completely coincidental.

(I just realized that with the amount of "draw from what you know" that I do, I really need to start putting that at the beginning of my stories and movies...)

~Like A Snowflake~

(short story)

I stare at the locker in disbelief. In the back of my mind I know that I shouldn’t feel shock, I should have known this was coming. After all, they’ve said these very words aloud to me at least a few times a week all year—why wouldn’t they just give up and put it on my locker for the world to see?

Die, fag.

The square of white notebook paper is as light and innocuous as a snowflake against the dark-blue metal of my newly-scratched locker. I’ve seen the skull and crossbones a thousand times, from the time I was in kindergarten playing pirates with my friends—come to think of it, that was probably the last time I had friends, back in kindergarten—and now here it is, an actual threat. Who would ever have guessed that I’d see it in this context?

Slowly I reach out and rip the note from my locker. I want to burn it, but I don’t have the means to do so right now, and I need to get rid of this before anyone sees. Besides, I see the writer of the note—and he’ll pretend he didn’t write it later, but I know he wrote it—peeking from around the corner. He wants to see what I’ll do. Fine, let him watch me; I’ll give him something to watch…

Very deliberately, I roll the note into a ball and drop the ball onto the carpeted floor. While Scott is watching, I crush the note beneath my heel. Let him see my tiny display of defiance. It’s the only method of fighting back that I have. The administration has proven multiple times that they don’t care, so I have no help there, and my only friend is a skinny sophomore girl who’s about as much good in a fight as a Care Bear. I’m virtually alone; I have no way to fight against Scott, except to do this. He and I both know it’s meaningless, we both know he still has power over me, but for a moment I enjoy pretending that I can actually fight back.

I wince when I hear the voice ring through the halls—“You’ll regret that, faggot!”—but I pretend not to hear. Instead, I open my locker and fish out my binder, and then hurry back to class, having finally achieved my mission and obtained my homework.

And for the time being I forget about Scott, and that is where I make my critical mistake.

At ten-thirty the bell rings and I go to my third-period lunch. I hate this, I really do, it’s too early to eat, but if I don’t I’ll regret it for the rest of the day. I spot Katy at the edge of the cafeteria and wave to her, before heading off to get my food. I never bring lunch from home. Believe it or not, the food here is actually better than what I eat at home, causing me to wonder exactly why the kids all complain about what we’re fed at school.

I get my lunch and begin looking for a place to sit. This is when I notice Scott glowering at me from a corner of the cafeteria that I always avoid. Surrounded by his hulking, chain-adorned friends, he cuts an imposing figure, and I involuntarily shiver as I start to cross back to where Katy and a few of her friends are sitting.

And that is when I realize that the cafeteria is so tense that it’s actually scary. The level of noise is about ten percent of what it normally is. Moreover, half of the students located here are staring at me. I have no idea why, and honestly, I’m not sure I want to know. Probably has something to do with what Scott and his gang did this morning. It’s probably been blown way out of proportion, too. By this time, they probably think my locker was wired with explosives or they put a live snake in it or something. And of course I deserved what I got, for the heinous crime of not wanting to date girls.

I look down at my tray as I edge through the cafeteria. I don’t want to be stared at. I just want to eat my freaking lunch. But, since this is the worst public high school in the history of public high schools, that’s just not going to happen. The last time everyone in the cafeteria stared at me, I got attacked with a Jell-O catapult, courtesy of Scott and his right-hand goon, Justin.

A pair of black combat boots plants themselves in my path. I swallow hard and look up. Scott, of course. Well who else would it be, the tooth fairy? What did you expect, that he’d leave you alone? I ask myself sarcastically. Scott leers at me, and my stomach twists. I just wish he’d insult me or pour milk on me or whatever he’s going to do, and have done with it.

A circle of students, some of them his friends, some of them bystanders, has formed around us. The seconds slides by. Scott continues to sneer at me, and I protectively clutch my lunch tray against me, preparing to get food thrown at me or hear the now-familiar curse words. Come on, Scott…just get it over with.

The fist seems to come out of nowhere, hitting the side of my cheek with stunning force, causing me to drop my lunch tray in shock. For a split second it feels like I’m staring into a strobe light as the fluorescent lighting blackens in my eyes and then hits me full-force, and it’s only through sheer force of will that I manage to stay conscious. All the while, the only coherent thought going through my mind is, What the hell just happened?

I hear Scott laughing triumphantly, and I freeze in place—I’m not letting him do this, I am not letting him humiliate me like this, I know I haven’t got a prayer, but I don’t care anymore, I have to push back.

With a strangled-sounding war cry, I launch myself at him. Innocent of any knowledge of how to fight, the best I can do is sort of body-check him, but it’s enough to throw him off-balance. He stares at me in total shock for a three-count, and then he hurls himself right back at me, knocking me to the ground and causing me to hit my head—hard—against the tiled floor.

What follows is five minutes of sheer hell on earth. I don’t even know how it happens. All I know is that one minute, I’m trying to make sense of the dull, throbbing pain at the back of my head, and the next I’m spitting out a mouthful of my own blood. While Scott pins me to the floor and proceeds to beat the living crap out of me, chaos reigns around us. I hear screams and punches and curses, and I have to briefly wonder why they’re fighting. This is between me and Scott, not them, which is why it never occurs to me to wonder why they don’t help me. After all, they’ve never done that before; why start now?

It doesn’t take long—two or three punches, maybe, if that—before I give up trying to fight back and simply try to defend myself as best as I can from the blows. But it seems like forever before Mr. Wendell, the student dean, pulls Scott off of me, by which time I’m so badly injured that I couldn’t even tell you what’s hurting. My entire body feels as if I’ve just climbed out of a food processor set on “pulse.” Speaking of pulses, I’m amazed that I even still have one. I’m surprised Scott hasn’t killed me by now—God knows he’d be proud of himself if he did.

“Can you sit up for me?” Mr. Wendell asks, not ungently, as one of the security officers deals with Scott. Just seeing this makes me feel slightly better. I don’t have a hope of getting rid of him; the worst he’ll get is maybe a suspension, but at least he’s not getting off completely free. I let the dean peel me off the floor, spitting out another mouthful of my own blood as I slowly pull into an upright position.

“What happened?” the dean asks me.

Oh, now there’s a fine question to ask the one lying on the ground covered in bruises and blood and God knows what else. All I want is for an ambulance to come and knock me out with pain meds, is that really too much to ask? But I force out an answer anyway, and tell Mr. Wendell, through gasps of pain, that Scott punched me unprovoked in the middle of the cafeteria.

Mr. Wendell sympathetically pats my shoulder and tells me that he’s going to take me to the nurse’s office to “get cleaned up,” and then, and I quote, I should “Go back to class and let us take care of this.” Who, I wonder, is “us?” Is this the same “us” that has repeatedly ignored my reports of being cursed, insulted, spat on, and assaulted with food and spitballs and paper missiles in the hallways? Is this the same “us” that let Scott tape a death threat to my locker? Is this the same “us” that took forever to intervene when he started beating the hell out of me? Oh yes, I have a lot of faith in this unnamed “us.”

I should be in the hospital. Instead, I’m taken to the school nurse, where my many wounds are cleaned with disinfectant and I’m given a Tylenol before being sent to Principal Deven’s office to be interrogated. I tell him the truth: Scott taped a threatening note to my locker and then attacked me in the middle of the cafeteria. I know that it won’t be enough to get the asshole expelled, but I know I have to at least try.

Principal Deven listens to my story and then tells me what Scott told him, and it’s enough to make me want to quit life: The reason that I was attacked today, according to Scott, is because I made unwanted advances.

Dear God, if You exist, I silently pray as Principal Deven explains that under the circumstances, others have to be questioned before a decision can be made, is it too much to ask that for once, just for once, they’ll believe me?

I already know the answer.

“It’s unbelievable, that’s what it is,” Katy says later that afternoon, as she bandages one of the multiple open wounds that the school nurse neglected to cover with a band-aid. “I just can’t believe it…so they actually said they have to investigate it? They didn’t believe you right away?”

I snort and shake my head. “Come on, Katy. Since when do they ever believe me right away?”

“Well, seeing as you’re the one who’s so scarred up that Freddy Krueger would be afraid of you, and Scott didn’t get so much as a scratch, I thought for once they might actually see that you’re telling the truth.” Katy tapes the gauze shut and squeezes my hand. “There, is that any better?”

Of course it isn’t; when your arm is grabbed and slammed off a tiled floor by a kid wearing fake brass knuckles, it’s not going to be made better by gauze and Bactine. But she means well, better than any of the idiots running our school, so I say, “Yeah, it’s a bit better.”

“Good.” Katy continues to hold my hand, even after she’s done playing doctor, and I’m grateful for that—it’s not actual medicine, but I actually feel better just knowing that she gives a damn about me, enough to want to comfort me, to protect me. And I know she was the one who ran to get the authorities. I know that out of the five hundred-plus spectators in the cafeteria today, she was the only one who actually went for help.

“So what exactly happened?” I ask her. “I mean, all I know is that Scott kicked my ass and there was some kind of riot…what actually happened? Did you see?”

“Well…” She sighs. “So after you started to fight back, basically everything just went to hell in a handbasket. Someone tried to break up the fight, I don’t know who, and one of Scott’s drones jumped him. Then everyone just lost it and started pounding on each other.”

Translation: Someone was worried about getting in trouble and tried to calm things down, only to get mixed up in the chaos. Nobody except Katy would care that I was getting beat up, only that they might be guilty by association. “Then what?”

“Well, I went for help, and when I got back everyone was still fighting. Mr. Wendell called for security, and the security people got the fighters to calm down pretty damn fast. But you know Scott, he just wouldn’t quit until someone actually pulled him off you…I mean, if anything, he just got worse.”

Of course. If you sense an end coming, try to get as many punches in as you can before someone stops you. “I hate life right now,” I announce, and Katy sympathetically pats my hand.

“Just tell them the truth if they call you into the office again.” She pauses, and then adds, “They questioned me too, by the way. Principal Deven and Mr. Wendell, I mean. They called me into the office not long after the fight ended and asked me a bunch of stuff about you, and about the fight, and whether or not I knew how it got started.”

“What did you tell them?” I ask.

“What do you think? I told them that Scott is an arrogant bastard of a bully who’s been tormenting you for months, and he started this whole thing by sucker-punching you in front of half the damn school.”

I smile. This time it’s the truth, but I know full well that Katy would tell them a pack of complete lies if it would protect me. “So what did they say? Anything?”

She shakes her head. “No…but I think they’ll have to do something this time. I’m praying for expulsion, but you know how they are, they don’t want to do anything that might get them in trouble with the board of education or with the parents.”

Story of my life. “They can’t do anything because…” It’s always about protecting themselves. Can’t defend me because Scott’s cronies might beat them up. Can’t tell on Scott because he’ll target them next. Can’t expel Scott because his parents will freak out. Can’t do this, can’t do that. Protect yourself, and if one lonely gay kid gets punched to death in the process, well, that’s just one way of solving the problem.

Katy sees the look on my face and knows what it means. “They’ll do something this time,” she says softly. “They have to. I mean…look at you, and then look at Scott. Anyone with half a brain could see—”

“There’s your problem, right there,” I cut her off. “They don’t have half a brain among the whole group of them. They all think in terms of fight-or-flight.”

Katy doesn’t say anything else, but she squeezes my hand again and I know she knows I’m right.

The next day, the entire school is called to an assembly in the auditorium at the beginning of the day. Hope rises in me once again. For a few brief moments I let myself fantasize about Principal Deven outlining a new policy against bullying, telling us that Scott has been expelled and sent to juvie, commending me for bravely putting up with his bullshit for so long.

But those fantasies are crushed the minute Mr. Wendell gets up to the podium and opens his mouth. He talks about the fight, and how it “reflects badly on our school,” and how we should all be ashamed of ourselves for behaving like this. I should want to kill him right now, but I can’t muster up the energy to be decently mad. Mostly, I’m just in shock. Katy doesn’t say anything the entire time, just stares ahead like me, her hand slowly tightening around mine as the assembly goes on.

Finally comes the icing on the cake: Mr. Wendell looks at us all gravely and says, “There’s no need to tell your parents what happened yesterday, so if you haven’t told them, don’t. Most of them have been e-mailed about the situation, it has been well-explained as an issue that the school is working to resolve. If anyone from the press asks to speak with you concerning this fight, please decline. There is no reason why what happened yesterday should bring down our school’s morale or image. We can remain unified, as we have always been.”

He goes on and on about how our school spirit shouldn’t be diminished, how we can still finish out the year and be proud of ourselves. I don’t care. I just stare straight ahead, wondering how in the hell I managed to get into this place, and how in the hell I’m going to escape when no one except Katy even knows I exist.

One sentence of Mr. Wendell’s sticks out in my brain. It’s the only time he gives us the truth in the entire assembly, actually—it’s the final statistics of yesterday’s fight: Eighteen bloody noses, four broken bones, thirty miscellaneous injuries, seven expelled—Scott not among them—nineteen suspended, eleven hospitalized, five withdrawn from school.

And all I can think is, Last week, when Marilyn Evans cheated at the Quiz Bowl, it made the papers. And this won’t.

How's This, Mr. Ginsberg?

So this is going to be another writing collection post...nothing's really happening around here at the moment, so unless you want to hear about how I FINALLY nailed that one tricky dance from my Jump5 dancercise video, this is what we've got to work with.

~Girl in the Back~

(poem...and this one is fairly old...excuse the awkward rhymes)

I am lost in the middle of the crowd

Can't hear my own voice it's too damn loud

No one thinks I'm worth talking to

And once again I'm stuck here without a clue

Thought I had friends but they're ignoring me

Guess I was wrong when I said I had everything

I'm the useless piece of paper at the bottom of the stack

No one wants to deal with the girl in the back

Five months to go and I just want to get out

Go home, where I've got nothing to cry about

I'll run back to Daddy; be my mama's little girl

I'm happiest in my private corner of the world

Thought I had it all, but they turned into jerks

Could be lonely instead of angry, I guess that works

Wish I could be fearless but my armor has a crack

I know I can't be the only girl in the back

Some day they'll see they can't ignore me anymore

And then they'll wonder why they didn't see me before

Someday I'll come out and be the leader of the pack

But for now, I'm content to be the girl in the back

You can ignore me all you want but I'll never care

I'm going to be somebody, I'm going to get somewhere

And when you're working in McDonald's--or worse

I'll be in the sky, riding a wave of colored starbursts

~After Hours~

(poem written my sophomore year)

I used to live life on my own time

Now I'm stuck in a living nightmare

No time to myself, every minute has to count

I tell you, burning Hell can't compare

But late at night, that's when I live

As Miller said it, I can't sleep for dreaming

Lie quiet and still, I'm girl uninterrupted

Until my clock brings me home by screaming

I'm supposed to be asleep but that's okay

I'd rather have this precious time to breathe

If I didn't have imagination I would go insane

I need these hours when I can just be me

I only want nighttime, I don't need the day

When the lights go down, my real life begins

After hours, that's when fantasies come alive

And you know how dreams can be our friends

Better to be lonely than be overstretched

Socializing's fine, but I'm happy on my own

If I needed more friends, I go out and search

But like I said, it's better for me to be alone

Forgiven Them

(lyrics written in my sophomore year)

I am not alone, and I am not unloved

But sometimes I can't help but feel that way

When I'm by myself, sometimes I feel sad

But it always disappears by the next day

(chorus)

And maybe I'm clingy, sometimes I try too hard

But I refuse to settle for counterfeit friends

Yet somehow at the same time every day

I realize that I've forgiven them again

Do you know how it feels to be the odd one out?

To wish someone kept you in their heart

Do you ever think that if you go on like this

You might end up getting torn apart

(chorus 2)

And you know you're not clingy, you don't try too hard

And you know you can't settle for counterfeit friends

Yet somehow at the same time every day

You realize that you've forgiven them again

Are you stuck in the dark, just like me?

Yes I know you feel just like that sometimes

Are you waiting to break out with me?

Let's take the high road and break out of line

(chorus 3)

Because we are not clingy, we don't try too hard

No, we will not settle for counterfeit friends

And tomorrow you and I will stick close together

They'll see we haven't forgiven them again

No we will never forgive them again

~Spring Night Crisis~

(lyrics written about my senior prom)

Can someone tell me how I'm supposed to feel?

Six months and I still can't tell which end is up

Sometimes I swear I can feel what you're thinking

Sometimes you swear I'm just crazy enough

Can someone tell me where I'm supposed to be?

At a Masquerade saving the last dance for you

Six months flying by at the speed of sound, oh God

I'm ready but I don't know what I'm supposed to do

I took your hand said 'Come with me into the night'

And we'd forgotten if we were wrong or right

Cliché feelings going with innocent teenage flings

Freshly breaking hearts and cheesy promise rings

(Chorus)

Here we are eighteen forgetting where we have to go

We are a spring night crisis falling into the starry sky

Once in a while you wonder if I'm still in love with you

Once in a while I think I might now the reason why

Here we are eighteen forgetting who we have to be

We are a spring night crisis inside a bubble of glass

Our time together is a crystal hourglass of flames

Our time together is a storm that will never pass

Can someone tell me what I'm supposed to say?

It's hard to speak when you take away my breath

And it's hard to feel when Novocain takes your heart

It's impossible to say good-bye to so many friends

Can someone tell me who I'm supposed to be?

It would be so easy to define myself through you

Can't you give me time to pull myself together

Let me win the game just when I'm about to lose

You took my hand said 'Come here dance with me'

You took my soul and promised to set it free

When can I reclaim the part of me I left behind

Why the hell can't we find a way to turn back time?

(chorus)

Can someone tell me what I already know?

I have to find a way to make myself let you go

(chorus)

(Chorus 2)

Here we are eighteen forgetting where they said to go

We are a spring night crisis falling into the open sky

Once in a while you understand that I'm in love with you

Once in a while I swear I truly know the reason why

Here we are eighteen forgetting who we'll never be

We are a spring night crisis and I'm in the party dress

Our time together was a crimson neon light

Our time together was nothing but the best

Our time together was nothing but the best

Our time together was nothing but the best

~March 10, 2009~

(poem for Writing About War project)

It starts with a piece of paper

and a blue locker.

A scrap of notebook paper

as innocuous as a snowflake

against the dark-blue metal

at seven forty-four AM.

Who would guess that note contained a death threat?

Two words--two little words--

each of them three letters--

D-I-E and F-A-G.

Two little words

that the teachers pretend don't exist.

Ten-thirty AM, normally it's so loud here

but now we all sit motionless

waiting for something to happen.

Half the school is in class,

but half of us are sitting here, waiting.

Two of us sit on the edge, away from our friends

actively avoiding the center of the room.

We know it's going to happen.

We just don't know when.

At ten thirty-six, it begins.

The writer of the note throws the first punch,

striking the boy he threatened.

Within five minutes, twelve kids have bloody noses.

Out of the five hundred inside the cafeteria,

only three of us think to go for help.

We edge away, towards the library,

the rest of them too busy hurting each other

to notice us slip away.

By the time the deans arrive

the count has risen to eighteen bloody noses

and thirty-four various other injuries.

Seven are expelled.

Nineteen are suspended.

Last week, when one girl cheated at a quiz bowl

it made the papers.

This won't.

(next post contains the short story...it was too long for this post, but it goes along with the WAW poem)

April Showers Kick My Ass

The title of this post was brought to you by Stolen Dialogue.

So...it's that time again, when I can't think of anything I specifically want to write about, so instead I'm going to post a collection of little bits and pieces of my writing. Mainly poetry, because at the moment I'm in a bit of a fiction block (a.k.a., every piece of fiction I write is virtually terrible and I'd be embarrassed to post it). So, here are a few of my latest attempts at creative writing.

'Fearless Vampire Killers'

[Note: This was what I read the first time I ever did a reading, at a Coffeehouse performance my first year at Interlochen.]

Forgive me if I repeat myself

It’s just that you distract me and I can’t remember what I’ve already said.

I love spending time with you

But I hate that you don't know why.

But I know that if I told you, you'd laugh at me

So I keep silent, and all I do is wish.

I wish I could be beautiful for you

I wish you saw me the way I saw you

I wish I wasn’t so awkward around you

And I wish I were one of the Fearless Vampire Killers

Because then I wouldn’t be afraid of anything

And I wouldn’t be afraid to tell you this to your face.

I’m sorry that I’m such a freak

And I’m sorry that I love you.

'Goodnight Heaven'

Goodnight, Heaven.

I’ve been waiting all day to see You.

Goodnight, Heaven.

Take me home tonight, when the moon is overhead

And everything is quiet and reassuring.

Goodnight, Heaven.

When You present to me the black curtain of the sky

Flecked with the glitter of stars,

I will take Your beauty home with me.

Goodnight, Heaven.

You are peaceful and beautiful and mine.

Every person in the world looks to Heaven

And finds their own piece of Heaven

And claims it for their own.

Goodnight, Heaven.

You made me believe again.

Goodnight, Heaven.

I thank You, forever and always.

“Fake Cigarette”

It was my first time smoking—or pretending to smoke.

I didn’t want to smoke,

but when she offered the fake cigarette I took it,

because I wanted to be sophisticated, like her.

She was older than me by exactly six months

and she always wore lipstick

and black, lots of black, and dark-red diabolical high heels.

I wanted to be like her.

It was the very beginning of November.

Outside it was gray and cold, as we knew only too well

because we had just walked to the store hours earlier,

to get coffee and energy drinks and various forms of sugar.

and we were sitting together in the library,

planning for National Novel Writing Month,

writers, beatniks, the “crazy ones,” just us, no outsiders.

And I wanted to be like her,

so I was wearing red lipstick and a black fedora

straight from a 1920s gangster film,

and I was drinking heavily-sugared coffee

while I pretended to smoke that fake cigarette.

I still have that cigarette, puckered at one end

and stained with red lipstick,

the veteran of many attempts to look cool.

I wanted to impress her, so I wore a black leather jacket

that I pretended was from a vintage store

but I really got it off the clearance rack at Target

and saddle shoes that I pretended were real

but were really from a costume shop

and red lipstick, always red lipstick.

I drank coffee from the school cafeteria at every meal

even though I hated the taste.

That night, on the first day of National Novel Writing Month,

was my first taste of real coffee,

not cafeteria coffee, but real coffee

that didn’t taste like dirt mixed with coffee creamer.

I turned to her, fake cigarette in my mouth, coffee in hand,

and said that I felt like a proper beatnik now.

Her reply was so predictable I could have said it along with her:

“Ist gut, ja? I have done my job now, mein schatz.”

'Misunderstanding'

She remembers his eyes.

His big, sweet brown eyes, precisely the same color as her best friend’s.

The kind of eyes that no one can really resist, especially not her.

She remembers the soft brown bed-head and the God-awful ski hat he wore when the snow first came.

She remembers his gentle smile

and the way his teeth sank into his lower lip when he was embarrassed.

She remembers the way he would look at her,

like she was someone worth seeing, someone worth loving,

and he always knew just when to look at her this way,

when her dreams were crashing around her and she needed to be loved.

He cared, and she will never forget it.

He remembers her voice.

Her distinct voice, the voice he would recognize in a crowd of a thousand.

The kind of voice no one can forget, even when they’re a hundred years old.

He remembers the long, loose curls, and that stupid pink scarf that made her look like Dolores Umbridge.

He remembers the smell of her perfume

and the hot-pink lipstick she wore when she needed a confidence boost.

He remembers the way she would look at him,

like he was the smartest, bravest person she could imagine,

and she always knew just when to look at him this way,

when he was vulnerable and he desperately needed a friend.

She was his friend, and he loved her.

“I’ll never want you.”

When she first said this it was reassuring, in a strange kind of way.

It meant things between them would never be awkward or uncomfortable.

It meant that no matter what happened there was the understanding that they were friends and nothing more.

But then they were alone together

and for the first time he realized that she was, in fact, a girl.

And now she was looking at him differently,

like he was her Prince Charming, her fairy tale,

and she knew this was the worst time to look at him this way,

when his guard was down and he wouldn’t push her away.

He had a choice to make.

“I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Her eyes burned with tears when she heard those four terrible words.

Those words meant the destruction of something she could never get back.

Those words meant that in a moment of weakness, she had destroyed something incalculably precious.

She ran away then, away from him

and tried to stop herself from crying harder than she’d ever cried before.

And he didn’t follow her when she ran,

because in that moment he knew he couldn’t stop her,

and he knew she would not forgive him,

and they both knew nothing would ever be the same.

All because of a misunderstanding.

'He’s A Rockstar'

[Note: This is a nonfiction essay written about meeting my idol, Ronnie Winter, at a concert with my dad. This is also the essay that inspired the title and theme of my senior thesis film.]

So it’s after midnight, I think, I don’t really know. What I do know is that I’m in the Agora Ballroom in Cleveland, Ohio, and it’s late, and the entire place smells like cigarette smoke and beer and sweat. Earlier I carefully straightened my hair and did my makeup, but now you can’t tell that I did anything because I’m such a mess from dancing and screaming and singing along for the past two hours. About an hour ago, someone chose to throw their beer over the railing above us so that a bunch of us were splattered, so even though I haven’t ingested a drop of alcohol I smell like I’ve just taken a bath in a keg.

Beside me, my dad scans the crowd. Everyone is moving for the exit and it’s literal human traffic from here to the door. “I think we’re going to be awhile,” he warns me.

I look around. He’s right. The entire club is a mass of bodies; we can’t move without stepping on each other. So Dad leads me back to the ballroom/concert venue, where we just watched Red Jumpsuit Apparatus perform, along with three bands I’d never heard of before. The floor is sticky with alcohol and grime. The place smells like it hasn’t been cleaned in ages. But the pink and yellow lights make the entire room seem to glow, and right now I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be.

I run across the dance floor and spread my arms wide, laughing and twirling like a little girl pretending to be a ballerina. “Shake it, break it, get off your feet, come dance with me,” I sing, quoting a line from a song we’ve just heard. My pink Saucony sneakers stick to the floor with every step, making a squelching sound that is vaguely reminiscent of a whoopee cushion.

Dad reaches out and catches my arm. “Come on, you. We might as well go now, it’s cleared up a little.”

I stop dancing and give him a reproachful look. “I don’t want to leave yet.” The drummer from Anafair, one of the opening bands and, in my opinion, much better than the other two, emerges from behind the stage. “I want to ask him for an autograph,” I say, thinking that I really want an autograph from the lead singer of Red Jumpsuit Apparatus but knowing that I will never, ever get that.

Dad shakes his head. “No, you don’t. Come on, we need to get going.” He puts his arm around me and steers me away from the dance floor.

Reluctantly I allow myself to be dragged along, through the crowd, until Dad looks at me, smiles, and says, “There he is.”

“Who?” I ask blankly. The thought that it might be Ronnie Winter never crosses my mind.

But then I look up, and, as Dad put it, there he is.

From the moment I heard Ronnie Winter’s voice on Don’t You Fake It, screaming and belting through the punk-rock anthems and then gliding through softer ballads, I fell in love. The themes of his lyrics—don’t give up, fight for change, love and be loved, don’t be afraid, be strong, be loyal to those you love and, most importantly (in my opinion anyway), don’t be a douchebag—spoke to me in ways that Kelly Clarkson and Green Day never could. From the outset, I loved his band and I loved him.

And then I found out about his past and it made me love him more. Ronnie Winter grew up in turmoil, with alcoholic, drug-addicted, abusive parents and siblings to take care of, little support from his family and nowhere to turn for help. He fought alcoholism in college and worked the night shift at Wal-Mart to put himself through school. And he pulled through all of this and became, in my opinion, an amazing person.

So to see him this close to me, literally feet away, is not only a shock, but the most amazing gift Fate could possibly hand me.

I fish in my pocket for my ticket stub, gibbering frantically to my dad the entire time—"Oh my God I don’t believe this, I can’t believe he’s doing this, he’s so sweet, you’d never see the Jonas Brothers doing this, oh my God where’s my Sharpie, Dad do you have the camera?"—and then it’s here, I’m standing in front of him, and he is smiling at me, and for a split second I wonder if I’ll wake up and still be in the car on the long drive from Oxford to Cleveland.

Ronnie is taller than me. Well, no kidding, everyone is taller than me, but he’s really taller than me, by about a foot. He looks much younger in person than he does on CD covers and in magazines, all light-brown hair and sweet dark-brown eyes, a kind smile on his thin face.

I think he says something to my dad, but I don’t know what. I just stare at him for a second, and then wordlessly shove my ticket stub into his hands. He signs it, still smiling, and I blush and finally manage to squeak out a word: “Hi.”

This is what being so close to him does to me. There is so much I want to tell him, starting with, “You are my hero,” and ending with, “Your music makes high school bearable,” and yet all I can manage is “Hi.” I can tell that my dad, who knows full well that I rarely, if ever, shut up, is wondering who the hell I am and what I have done with his talkative daughter.

It’s then that I feel the notebook in my back pocket and remember something. I pull it from my pocket and hand it to Ronnie. “My—my best friend—couldn’t come tonight,” I stammer. “Can you sign—this?—I want to bring it back to her.”

“Of course!” He smiles at me yet again. That smile—I can only wish my smile were that warm, that friendly, that nice. “What’s her name?”

I tell him her name, and he signs the notebook. My dad holds up the camera, and offers to take our picture. I realize what this means and almost scream: Ronnie Winter is going to put his arm around me. He does, slipping a thin arm around my shoulders and indicating that I should put my arm around his waist. I am only too glad to do so. He’s skinnier than I would’ve thought, and it’s only when he gasps that I realize I’m holding on too tight.

Click!

Dad snaps the picture. I have to let go of Ronnie, for a minute I don’t think I will, I don’t want to. But I do, because I have to, and with one last sweet smile he turns away from me.

I don’t want to let him go yet, don’t want to share him with the other fans. “Ronnie?”

He turns back to me.

“I really, really love ‘False Pretense,’” I tell him, naming my favorite Red Jumpsuit Apparatus song.

It’s not much. It can’t scratch the surface of how much I love his music, how I could live on his music, how badly I want to be like him.

But it’s enough for now.

He looks back to me, still smiling away—does he ever stop?—and replies, “I love that one too. Did you like hearing it live?”

“Yes!” I practically shriek, and, laughing, he turns away, to sign a t-shirt for another female fan.

Dad takes my hand and leads me away, and I’m so happy as we walk out the door that I am literally skipping. Outside it is freezing cold—it's January in Cleveland, and almost everything is covered in a paper-thin sheet of nearly invisible ice. And yet I skip along, so happy I barely notice the cold. My jacket is in the car and I'm wearing a t-shirt. I don't care. It could start snowing—and, if it keeps up like this, it probably will—and I wouldn't care. Right now, I am literally so happy that I wouldn't notice the apocalypse.

On Monday I will have to go back to school, where I will be called every four-letter-word known to man, where I will be insulted and told I am “pathetic” or “a loser” because I like school and I don’t have sex with anything that moves. I will endure a teacher who I think must have a PhD in Asshole Behavior instead of Education. I will endure student deans who think they own the world and condescend to me as if I were nothing more than a stupid child.

I don’t care. Ronnie wouldn’t let them bother him, and neither will I.

STOLEN DIALOGUE

"I was a very curvaceous Justin Bieber."

"You're the badass, Mr. Udell!"

Person one: Where's my singing partner?

Person two: Oh, she left.

Person one: Aww, I wanted to get pictures of us in our costumes!

Person three: Don't worry, they were unforgettable.

Person one: Oh my God, your dad is so nice!

Person two: Were you expecting otherwise?

Person one: I need to kiss his ass for awhile, see if anything comes of it.

Person two: Gosh...oh wait, I thought you meant that literally...

"On a scale of one to unacceptable...that's like a Rosie O'Donnell."

"You sound like a drunk Oompa-Loompa!"

(to a student using a film he edited in a presentation)

Teacher: How's that for kissing ass?

Person one: How's the editing going?

Person two: I'm slowly forgetting what sunshine looks like...but I'm getting a lot done so it's all good.

Person one: Yeah, 'cause it's not like humans need sun or anything.

Person two: Yeah, I know, right? It's not like I'm a plant; I can't do photosynthesis.

(in an editing workshop)

Person one: The head-exploding cut didn't work.

Person two: That's because you'd have to cut to something else exploding.

Person three: Okay, how about an exploding squirrel?

Person two: Well, no, because then you're saying their love is like an exploding squirrel.

"You're too short to be a serial killer."

Person one: Does this look weird to you?

Person two: That you...have skin?

Person one: I love you.

Person two: Your hands are freezing...but I love you too.

"I don't want you to die and get fed to the evil swans in the ornamental lake."

"Oh God...he's like the Creature from the Existentialist Lagoon. His pigheadedness and asshattery just keeps growing exponentially as the semester goes on."

STAY TUNED for my next epic blog post, which will feature a new, well, feature...it shall be called "Artist as Badass" (points to all who get the Interlochen reference) and will showcase some of my fellow awesomesauce indie artists...if you like hilariousness, awesomeness, and independent film, you will love this. I promise.

Blogging NaNoWriMo: Part One

I'm not even going to comment on my October Fail. I will just say this: It's better than March of last year. And in my defense, I was working on college apps. SO THERE.

That said, there will be a LOT more blogging in November, because 1) I'm almost done with apps, and 2) it is NATIONAL NOVEL WRITING MONTH, and it's my first time doing it, so I'm going to have a blast with this.

The "official" rules of NaNoWriMo:
1. Start your novel at the beginning of November (optionally, at midnight on Halloween)
2. Get 50,000 words by the end of November
3. Don't steal any ideas from published authors or your fellow writers

The UNOFFICIAL rules of NaNoWriMo:
1. Drink a Mack truck full of coffee every day.
2. Either eat loads of sugar or drinks tons of energy drinks.
3. Load up on caffeine at every possible opportunity.
4. Neglect everything else in favor of NaNoWriMo.
5. Stay up late into the night (my personal record is 7:00 AM) writing.
6. Be as douche-y and as "starving artist" as you possibly can.
7. Compete with fellow NaNoers to be as ragged and beat-up a possible. (Ex. "I only slept four hours last night!" "Oh yeah? Well I slept THREE!")
8. Alternate your writing playlist between depressing, sappy music and upbeat, fun music for maximum variety in your novel-writing.


So for the entirety of November, I will be working on a 50,000 word novel, in addition to my thesis and my college apps. Is NaNoWriMo silly? Of course it is! But you know what, while it's not an ideal way to write a book - *coughQUANTITYOVERQUALITYcoughcough* - but it's fun, it's rebellious (it IS, damn it) and it's a good way to bond with your fellow writers. Why not have a good time, and practice writing in the process? It's a great way to hone your skills for stuff that REALLY matters.

And, hey, if anyone can't get into NaNo, you can also do Script Frenzy in April...but we'll cross that bridge when we come to it.

So since I'm discussing NaNoWRiMo, I HAVE to share something I've written for it, right? So tonight I'll just share the summary (I won't upload EVERYTHING I write for NaNo--I'll probably put it on DeviantART at the end of the month, though), and with each post I'll share a bit of the story. Sound good?

So here is the summary and working title:

"Spectrum"

Sixteen-year-old aspiring writer Emma Stephenson has always lived in the heart of the famously sheltered Mackinac Island. But when a dangerous combination of politics and newcomers turn the peaceful island into a chaotic near-war zone, Emma is unceremoniously shipped off to a college preparatory boarding school on the mainland and confronted with situations she’s never heard of, let alone expected to face.

At first Emma thinks it can’t be that hard; from her media-driven knowledge of boarding school she expects rules and discipline. To her shock, the rules are minimal and the kids are allowed to do whatever they please, so long as they get their schoolwork done. Lost on the shores of brisk, sunny Torch Lake, stripped of everything she knows or cares for, Emma feels like her life is virtually over.

Until…

The Gay-Straight Alliance meets on a windy October afternoon and a reluctant Emma is dragged along by her new friend, Ramie. There she spots someone she’s never spoken to, or even really seen: A boy with lime-green hair and a serious lack of inhibition. But is it really a boy? Or is the mysterious person something that Emma can’t even begin to understand? Before long the rumors circulate, the game is up, and Emma not only begins to question her friends’ beliefs, but also her own.

It seems more autobiographical than it is, I swear. Emma and I really are nothing alike. If I met her in real life, prior to her character's "transformation," I would probably want to smack her (you'll see why when I start posting bits of the novel).


-----------------

In other news...

How many people are ready to slap me with a wet noodle if I gush about Michael Jackson on this blog ONE MORE FREAKING TIME? *looks into cyberspace* Yeah, well, get your wet noodles ready, because I'm about to gush like a firehose...

Today I saw Ghosts, Michael's short film/music video about, well, ghosts (and idiot mayors) and immediately decided that there was no point in going to film school and that I should just quit now and become a starving artist, because there is no way that ANY film that I make will EVER be this beautiful. You think I'm exaggerating? I'm not.

Well, okay, I am a little, but only about the starving artist part, I swear. (There is no power on this earth that will make me drop out of school, especially before I've even gotten into film school. Come on, guys, you know me better than that.) BUT this movie is absolutely incredible, and no joke, I DID cry when I saw this...I can't explain why. Here's what I can explain: Michael Jackson + Stephen King = UNBEATABLE. It's like The Corpse Bride had a baby with "Thriller" (try getting THAT image out of your head).

"Ghosts" has the honor of being the World's Longest Music Video (I'm not even exaggerating about that - it's in the Guinness Book of World Records), at roughly 40 minutes long, directed by Stan Winston and written by Stephen King, Mick Garris and (of course) Michael Jackson. It's about a man called the Maestro (Michael Jackson) arguing with the mayor of a "normal" town (also played by Michael Jackson - but by looking at the video you wouldn't know it) about whether or not the Maestro is "bad" for doing magic tricks and telling ghost stories to the town's children. Of course music, dancing, and theatrics ensue, along with plenty of scares and a boatload of CGI, and some ghoulish backup dancers. I swear, though, it's not a re-do of "Thriller," it does have some of the same elements, but it has a very Tim Burton feel to it and it's every bit as sweet, sad, innocent and "aww!"-able as Edward Scissorhands.

I could go on about this all night, but here's the heart of the matter: "Ghosts" is amazing. Watch it. End of story.

Part one:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2egr4TDjMBM

Part two:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n0tmEF5vIpE&feature=related

Part three:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RXS9G2J71Q&feature=fvw

Part four:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oVHKhxdPeZs

Part five:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JLwmhvYvGzQ

It looks like an MJ overload, and it is - but it's well worth waiting the 30+ minutes it takes for each YouTube part to download.

----------------


No quotes/stolen dialogue this time because I've been pathetic and haven't written any down...but don't worry, next time there will be PLENTY.

Besides, you don't have time to read stolen dialogue - you have to watch "Ghosts"! DO IT NOW!

...Please? *imagine MJ giving you puppy eyes* *imagine ME giving you puppy eyes*

Desperately seeking thesis

Did I promise to blog more often? Oh yes, I did! I hereby promise at least TEN posts in August. You know the last time I had ten posts in a month? NEVER. The most I've ever done in a month was seven, and that was waaay back in February, when I started the damn thing. So, I promise you--TEN POSTS IN AUGUST. (Although technically this one is a July post. So don't count this one. But. AUGUST = TEN POSTS. I promise.)

Honestly? I had another "I fail epically" day today. I got up at noon (this actually could be blamed on the fact that I spent almost twelve hours on the road yesterday and didn't get to sleep until two A.M., but I won't even go there), and planned to spend the day cleaning up the million and two messes around my house that I personally made, and then come up with my thesis ideas for senior year.

So how did I do in those two goals? A big fat zero for two. Here's what I actually did today:

1. Ate a stale peanut butter sandwich and some undersalted trail mix for breakfast.
2. Watched Twilight. Go ahead and laugh; you know you want to.
3. Took a loooong shower, most of which was spent wrestling with/washing my bird's-nest hair, and spent what felt like hours getting every single knot out of said bird's-nest hair. To all short-haired people, namely my father: I AM JEALOUS OF YOU, IT TAKES YOU FIFTEEN FREAKING MINUTES TO SHOWER AND BRUSH YOUR HAIR.
4. Went to dinner with my parents.
5. Read books that I'd read before. (FAIL, BEATNIK BELLE. FAIL.)
6. Worked out for the first time in a week, which felt AMAZING.
7. Facebooked.
8. Complained about missing Interlochen.
9. Argued with my parents.
10. Had good, non-argumental discussions with my parents.

Was there ANY thesis-planning or cleaning on that list? Of course not. GRR.

The thing is, I HAVE ideas. It's just that I'm worried that they suck. That's normal, right? No? Okay then, I fail once again.

My problem is that I can't seem to write anything other than teenage girl stories. Now, before you smack your forehead and go, "No, DUH!" let me explain myself. Last year at the film festival, a good chunk of the theses involved teenagers. BUT. Most of them also involved ADULTS. There was at least one adult part in most of the productions. Not mine. I didn't even feature adults as EXTRAS in mine. Why? Because I repeat: I cannot write about anything besides teenagers. And, to throw salt in that wound, most of my stories take place at a boarding school in the middle of nowhere. And most of my protagonists are artists.

Sound familiar?

To be fair, I'm getting better about this. I'm actually consciously TRYING to come up with stories that are centered around, or at least include, adults or young children. But in all honesty, I'm failing at this. I don't even know why. It's not like I can't relate to adults at all. I'm actually quite good at it. I know how to talk to adults; I like hanging out with adults. Hell, I'm almost legally an adult myself. But for whatever reason, there is something in my brain right now that forces me to write teenage dramas.

Problem #2: Every protagonist I come up with, male or female, turns into me. And being the self-centered idiot that I unfortunately can be at times, I rarely realize this until I'm halfway through a treatment. I tried writing a treatment about a sewage-plant worker and realized six paragraphs in that I was essentially writing about me, in ten years, working at a sewage plant. It was a thirty-year-old man. And yet the character was ME. Why?!?!?!

I had this problem last year, with characters who weren't ME at all. I did not intend to represent myself as an eighteen-year-old gay dude in love with his closeted roommate. Nor did I intend to represent myself as an out-and-proud visual artist who liked to read up on mythology and group-call his friends. So why did people automatically assume, "Oh, she's totally Gavin," or, "She thinks she's like Jackson." Um, no. I don't. They are my characters and my babies, but they are not me.

I think the problem here is not that I can't write, arrogant as that may sound. It's that I have a limited spectrum of things I actually want to write about. Can anyone relate to that, or am I once again on my own here?

Think about it: Do you just wake up and go, "Oh, I want to make a film about a windup doll who eats people?" Chances are, not really. It comes from a combination of circumstances, luck, and in general, just the way your mind works. Some people can look at an object and BOOM, instant story. Others have to twist things and think things over and look at things ten different ways before they've got an idea hashed out.

Guess which group I'm in?

The idea for Possession came out three things: 1) I have dozens of gay friends and observed their relationships more than straight teenage relationships, 2) I've lived situations like Gavin's, where you are unfortunately "just the friend," and 3) I saw the film Mysterious Skin, where an abused kid thinks that in the past he'd been abducted by aliens. The film contains plenty of homosexual references and (I'm about to be indelicate, skip to the next paragraph if you are easily shocked) gay sex scenes, so combining aliens and homosexuality just seemed like a strange--but very, VERY interesting and cool--concept to me.

The thing that evolved from Alien Water Torture to Possession is, for all the feedback and suggestions I had to put up with, my story. My ideas. My concepts. And it has its faults, but I love it anyway. So why, for the love of all things good and decent, can I not just write a damn treatment and have done with it? I KNOW I can write. I KNOW that I have ideas. I just can't seem to make myself do anything, and I think I know why: I don't want to screw up.

What else is new?

But here comes the cheesy self-pep talk: I'm not going to give up. (Is anyone surprised?) I didn't give up on Possession, and I'm not going to give up on my senior thesis, especially not before I've even started to write the damn thing. I'm an MPA; this is what I do, it's what I love. It'd be pretty stupid of me to throw in the towel and make a crappy, mediocre film just because I'm scared that people won't like it. Hell, I had people telling me every step of the way that they didn't like Possession, that it would never work, that I should do something different. But in the end, I got the film made--and people DID like it.

The point of all my rambling tonight: I'm terrified of failing on my senior thesis. But I can't let that stop me. To use the cliche Nike slogan: I have to...JUST DO IT.


STOLEN DIALOGUE:

[This stolen dialogue was all taken from businessmen whom I overheard, EVERY MORNING, when I was trying to SLEEP, while in North Carolina with my mother. They would stand outside my hotel room door and yak, added to that I would overhear them when I went to get ice. Believe me, I've got a LOT of material from these guys...]

"At least you're not traveling with someone who considers protein bars and Gatorade God's perfect meal."

"My boss couldn't find his ass if he sat right on it."

"How can any sane person get up at five in the morning to go for a jog in one-hundred-and-ten-degree heat? I ask you. That cannot be normal."

"The TV in this place is like pulling teeth. It's like they chose the networks with the most advertising and put them all on one television. And then they added in the stations with the worst reality stations to add insult to injury."

"I could insult you right now...but I won't, because I'm a mature adult."

"Between the southern accent and the constant references to my 'communication skills,' I'm starting to feel like I work for Dr. Phil."

"They charge you ten bucks for a cup of coffee and some damn cereal. It's enough to make a person long for the Hampton Inn."

"I don't want to be fired on account of stupidity."

"What am I supposed to do, have an affair because she doesn't like the vacuum cleaner I bought her? Divorce the woman so she'll clean the house? That doesn't make any sense."

"I'm beginning to miss having Bush as the President. At least a man didn't feel bad making fun of him."

Person one: I don't understand teenagers. My daughter loves Twilight. She says she's going to marry a werewolf. When I was a kid, the girls just wanted to get with the TV stars.
Person two: At least your kid's, what, twelve? My sister is thirty and I swear to God, she thinks that vampires exist...and that they sparkle.

"My wife made me get a FaceBook page, and now she all she does is complain that I don't update it often enough. I can't win."