From now on, you can just assume all of this is original material. I don't feel like writing copyright on everything I post.
---
Richard was laying on his back in his bed, staring at the posters that had been taped to his ceiling for four years or more.
Pete Townshend stared back at him with blue eyes. The Clash was leather clad and ready to rock. He stared down the barrel of Han Solo's blaster and into the faces of four lads from Liverpool.
He wondered if he would ever be the kind of person teens stared at while they contemplated their lives.
Contemplated their lives like he was now.
He glanced at the acoustic guitar that he had bought the day he turned sixteen three years ago. It was beaten up now, and covered in stickers and one fake mustache. He could play all sorts of covers and even a few of his own original songs.
But, would he ever pose with that guitar for a photographer? Would anyone ever want to listen to him who didn't know him since he was ten?
All Richard had ever wanted was to be a musician, but, sometimes he doubted if he could ever make it. Sure, Josh played bass pretty well and Freddy could play the drums, but, did they have what it took to make it big?
Richard turned off the light and tried to sleep, but, even through the darkness he could see Pete's eyes staring at him. Telling him something.
But what?
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Little Me Romance
I wrote this.
---
I liked a boy in the second grade.
That's usually how it works, isn't it? Girl likes boy. Boy spits in girls bologna sandwich. Girl cries until she throws up on her teacher's shoes.
It wasn't a picture perfect romance, I'll admit. But, the stains came out of the shoes.
His name was Charles. We called him Charles back then. Eventually, Charles became Charlie and even Char on some days. I loved the way that ch felt on my throat, my tongue, my lips.
I would stand alone in my bed, staring at my bookshelf or my desk and I would say his name over and over again just to feel it. "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie."
Third, fourth, fifth, sixth grade all came and passed with no more ruined sandwiches or shoes. We didn't see much of each other. Our classes were split into tracks A, B, and C. I was an A student and he was B.
Then, the movement came. Jr. High. New building, new students, new classes, no A, B, and C.
We shared a homeroom. Lily Walsh and Charlie Walters. We were made for each other.
On the first day, he passed me a note on green paper. It was covered in scribbled pen tests on the corners and small doodles of circular men holding various objects: a bouquet of flowers, a small explosive, a grenade launcher, and a thick book. In the middle were three of the heaviest words I had ever read:
Wanna go out?
So, I answered him on the same piece of paper. A resounding yes.
I won't tell you he made any big, romantic gestures. I won't tell you he kissed me and took my breath away. I won't tell you the sound of his voice made my knees shake. None of those things are true.
He took me out for pizza. I ordered a cherry cola. We ate and drank. We saw a movie. Something with a lot of explosions and one sex scene that was awkward for both of us. His mom picked us up and drove us home. We were 12. Not much more to expect from a first date, is there?
We went out two more times before we stopped talking, almost all together. One trip to the mall and another playing laser tag. No sparks. I don't know what little me expected, really.
We worked on some projects together in history because we knew each other by name. Other than that, no words were exchanged. No promises kept or broken.
I was lovesick for a while, but, I got over it when I finally pulled my head out of that bologna sandwich from second grade and realized Charlie wasn't the only boy my age.
So, I little me had a romance. It was big in my heart, big on the paper I scrawled it out on, and big in the dreams I had, but, small in real life. That's how most little romances turn out, isn't it?
---
I liked a boy in the second grade.
That's usually how it works, isn't it? Girl likes boy. Boy spits in girls bologna sandwich. Girl cries until she throws up on her teacher's shoes.
It wasn't a picture perfect romance, I'll admit. But, the stains came out of the shoes.
His name was Charles. We called him Charles back then. Eventually, Charles became Charlie and even Char on some days. I loved the way that ch felt on my throat, my tongue, my lips.
I would stand alone in my bed, staring at my bookshelf or my desk and I would say his name over and over again just to feel it. "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie."
Third, fourth, fifth, sixth grade all came and passed with no more ruined sandwiches or shoes. We didn't see much of each other. Our classes were split into tracks A, B, and C. I was an A student and he was B.
Then, the movement came. Jr. High. New building, new students, new classes, no A, B, and C.
We shared a homeroom. Lily Walsh and Charlie Walters. We were made for each other.
On the first day, he passed me a note on green paper. It was covered in scribbled pen tests on the corners and small doodles of circular men holding various objects: a bouquet of flowers, a small explosive, a grenade launcher, and a thick book. In the middle were three of the heaviest words I had ever read:
Wanna go out?
So, I answered him on the same piece of paper. A resounding yes.
I won't tell you he made any big, romantic gestures. I won't tell you he kissed me and took my breath away. I won't tell you the sound of his voice made my knees shake. None of those things are true.
He took me out for pizza. I ordered a cherry cola. We ate and drank. We saw a movie. Something with a lot of explosions and one sex scene that was awkward for both of us. His mom picked us up and drove us home. We were 12. Not much more to expect from a first date, is there?
We went out two more times before we stopped talking, almost all together. One trip to the mall and another playing laser tag. No sparks. I don't know what little me expected, really.
We worked on some projects together in history because we knew each other by name. Other than that, no words were exchanged. No promises kept or broken.
I was lovesick for a while, but, I got over it when I finally pulled my head out of that bologna sandwich from second grade and realized Charlie wasn't the only boy my age.
So, I little me had a romance. It was big in my heart, big on the paper I scrawled it out on, and big in the dreams I had, but, small in real life. That's how most little romances turn out, isn't it?
Friday, July 24, 2009
Who is this man, and why do you fear him?
---
You met under green lights and you gave him your name, assuming you could trust his pointed ears to keep it safe. Assuming you could trust anyone. When you asked his name, he told you it was Edward. So, you named him Edward, in his tight, black turtle neck that clung to his round torso and the thick bone of his forearm and elbow. Edward, with a red and gold belt holding up the black pants that continued to outline his odd physique. Edward, in a pair of red shoes with black laces that could tell stories about the dirty floors of dance clubs, strange apartments, and sweat flooded parties full of nude skin and phrases broken into grunted syllables.
Who is this man, and why do you fear him?
There was nothing between you. Nothing good or bad to make you think less or more of him, but, he made your heart prickle and your skin race. The only things you had in common were the shadows and the strangely colored lights of the club. So, you carried his name in your pocket as a lightweight reminder of everything you knew about him and tried not to let him escape into the corners and empty spaces whenever you turned away.
Who is this man, and why do you fear him?
The dancing evolved as you moved. Fast, at first, like the throbbing beat of the drum machine pulsing through the floor and the walls. Then, slower, lazier, more curious as you studied each other’s moves. His eyes burrowed into yours violently and mercilessly. At moments, you could feel his arms brushing against you, like little question marks to punctuate each move. Can I touch you? he was asking, and you could feel his heat radiating, radiating. Edward, you named the feel of his fingers on the small of your back. Edward, you named the way he let his eyes fall down the nape of your neck. Edward, you named the lips that you were curious to touch and feel.
Who is this man, and why do you fear him?
You left the club without a kiss, without a number, without anything but Edward, the name of the memories you were clinging to. The street was wet, your feet got cold and you flexed your toes inside your shoes. You didn’t think about the height of the buildings surrounding you, or the thin shadows cast by signs on the side of the road. Though you were sure you would never see Edward again, you knew you would feel him, and the feeling soaked into your bones and made you shiver.
Who is this man, and why do you fear him?
Sunday, July 19, 2009
First Date
The bathroom stall was cold, small, and puke-colored-pink. I rested my head in my hands and tried not to hyperventilate as I felt the walls close in on me. My hair was too long, it was frizzy and disgusting. My fingernails with dirty and uneven. My hands were too big and my legs were too small. I could still feel his eyes on me as I sat down at the table.
Of course, there was nothing wrong with him. Strong, handsome, smart, perfect.
I ordered my food and knew that I ordered too much. I was fat and stupid. A blob of filth and incompetence. I could feel his thoughts radiating toward me, despite the smile on his face.
I looked around at the walls of the stall. There were a few pitiful attempts at graffiti here and there. Something about The Killers ruling, another note with just a name, a doodle of hangman with the words "Love Hurts" filling in the spaces. I shook my head and tried to take a few deep breaths before standing up. The toilet flushed immediately and I opened to door of the stall to step out and wash my face and hands.
As I stood over the sink, I let the water run for a moment or two, staring at the stream with dead eyes. I dipped my face in, bent down, and scrubbed my face vigorously with both hands. After, instead of feeling clean, I just felt wet. I frowned at my reflection, then noticed words in my reflection. I turned around to look at the wall behind me and saw "YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL" written backwards, so that I could read it in the mirror.
I inhaled sharply and saw a smile in the mirror. It surprised me that the smile was mine. I dried my face and my hands with a paper towel and found myself smiling all the way back to the table.
He noticed the smile. "You're beaming," he observed.
"This is a nice date," I said simply, shrugging. But, in the back of my head, all I could see were those three words.
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.
---
Copyright JuliaBydulia
Inspired by: http://operationbeautiful.com/
Of course, there was nothing wrong with him. Strong, handsome, smart, perfect.
I ordered my food and knew that I ordered too much. I was fat and stupid. A blob of filth and incompetence. I could feel his thoughts radiating toward me, despite the smile on his face.
I looked around at the walls of the stall. There were a few pitiful attempts at graffiti here and there. Something about The Killers ruling, another note with just a name, a doodle of hangman with the words "Love Hurts" filling in the spaces. I shook my head and tried to take a few deep breaths before standing up. The toilet flushed immediately and I opened to door of the stall to step out and wash my face and hands.
As I stood over the sink, I let the water run for a moment or two, staring at the stream with dead eyes. I dipped my face in, bent down, and scrubbed my face vigorously with both hands. After, instead of feeling clean, I just felt wet. I frowned at my reflection, then noticed words in my reflection. I turned around to look at the wall behind me and saw "YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL" written backwards, so that I could read it in the mirror.
I inhaled sharply and saw a smile in the mirror. It surprised me that the smile was mine. I dried my face and my hands with a paper towel and found myself smiling all the way back to the table.
He noticed the smile. "You're beaming," he observed.
"This is a nice date," I said simply, shrugging. But, in the back of my head, all I could see were those three words.
YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.
---
Copyright JuliaBydulia
Inspired by: http://operationbeautiful.com/
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
My Sister's Principle: The Ten Firsts
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
When I first met you, I told you that I would never hold back. There would be no lying, no sparing feelings for the sake of our relationship. We had no relationship, but, I knew you were looking for one.
You were following me around the library with that broken expression on your face, asking me questions. "Do you have a boyfriend?" Was what you decided to finish with.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and froze behind the mystery shelf. "Look," I said sharply, resting one hand on your chest. "I just met you, and I won't lie, I do like you." I watched your eyes light up at the sound of those words strung together. "But, I don't sugar coat shit, honey." You loved the way I called you honey.
"I'm not one for a sweet tooth," you told me, smirking nervously. You were trying to impress me with your wit, I could tell.
I laughed and rested my palm on your cheek. "See? You're cute. I can tell that you're into me, too. But I'm the kind of girl who likes to drink and smoke, who forgets to put her glasses on in the morning."
"I don't need glasses. I don't need my liver," you pleaded.
I smiled at you and I know you sensed the pity in my voice when I continued. "Frank, that's the name, is it?" You nodded, so excited. "Well, Frank, today is your lucky day. I'm about to let you take me out to lunch today. I'm free around one. Don't be late."
I continued walking up and down the shelves, and you kept on following me.
"It's only noon, little boy. Come back another time." I laughed, watching you scurry out of the library, through the doors and into the sun while I was cramped in the air conditioned air and the bookshelves.
Since that day, since that egg salad sandwich you bought me, and within every moment between, you've been loving me constantly, insistently. I told you I wouldn't sugarcoat things, and now it breaks my heart that I can't. Every honest word I speak snaps you into smaller pieces.
My sister told me that there are ten important firsts to every lasting relationship: the first time you meet, your first date, your first kiss, the first gifts you exchange, the first time you say 'I love you', the first time you have sex, the first time you meet each other's parents, the first time you fight, when he first proposes, and the first pregnancy test you buy. Not necessarily in that order, she told me. But, her theory is that, in order to be lasting, every couple must experience these things together.
We met in that library.
We dated at the cafe down the street.
We kissed on the stoop outside my apartment building.
You bought me reading glasses at the library, so I bought you a new case for your trusty Costellos.
You told me you loved me at midnight at my favorite bar over a bowl of mixed nuts, my empty glass, and your full one.
We had sex at your place amidst your comic books and novellas in your living room.
Your parents lived in a small town in eastern Illionois; my parents lived in a big city in New York. Your mom liked my "spunk" and my dad appreciated your sensibility.
The first fight didn't take long, you know. I found my ways to make my biting remarks and you were always so passive agressive.
The proposal came last. After everything. After the drugstore.
The lights were harsh and almost blinding. I felt like sheilding my eyes as I picked up box after box and tried to translate all of the gibberish into something I could understand. "They're just plastic sticks you piss on, dammit. What's with all this scientific mumbo jumbo?" I snapped.
You rubbed my shoulders in that way you had that always made me smile. Even there, even amidst all the shit we were in. "All you have to do it pick one," you whispered soothingly.
I couldn't, though. My head was spinning. I could read, I could breathe, of course I couldn't decide. I picked up every little box and tried to say to myself Yes, this is the one but there was no way.
Before I could decide, you got down on one knee and grabbed my hand. "Whatever happens after you take a piss on that plastic stick," you whispered to me. "I want you to know that I want to marry you, Pen."
My throat seized up and I collapsed onto the floor of that stupid, little CVS. "I'd marry you, too, Frankie. But, not right now. Not while my nails are black and my stockings are still fishnets. I'm no mother and I'm no wife, and I don't want your paracite growing inside me."
You wrapped your arms around me and kissed the top of my head. "Penelope," you laughed.
You weren't one to have a sweet tooth, and you had adjusted to my savory or sour language. Still, I wasn't laughing. I was shaking, I was shallow, and I was full.
I was so sick of your broken looks and the fact that you'd put up with me when I treated you like shit. But, I'd never dated a guy willing to propose in the Family Planning aisle.
We got checked out and I took a short trip to the bathroom, unleashing a storm of the Arizona teas I had chugged in the car ride to the store. You waited outside, sweating and on the verge of tears. When I returned, it only took me shaking my head to send both of us back onto the floor in a pile of formerly human puddles of relief.
"No family planning then, huh?" You asked, stroking my hair and kissing my forehead again and again.
"Hopefully not for a long time," I shot back, though I could tell your hopes had gone up for just a second. You blinked, and it was gone, but, I had seen it there when you looked at me.
You nodded and cleared your throat. "Hopefully not for a long time."
So, if my sister is right, we have a long time left for family planning. We are one of the couples that survived. We made it through the date, the kiss, and the gift exchange, 'I love you', the sex, and the parents, the fights, the propsal, and the pregnancy test. We've arrived, Frankie. Maybe someday I'll walk down a different aisle and find myself happy to be in your arms.
Until then, I'm happy being Ms. Penelope Schaffer with a job at a library, a geeky boyfriend, and a home in Los Angeles that most girls would kill for. I'm happy being sour instead of sweet and remembering all of those bitter memories with you.
---
When I first met you, I told you that I would never hold back. There would be no lying, no sparing feelings for the sake of our relationship. We had no relationship, but, I knew you were looking for one.
You were following me around the library with that broken expression on your face, asking me questions. "Do you have a boyfriend?" Was what you decided to finish with.
I tucked my hair behind my ear and froze behind the mystery shelf. "Look," I said sharply, resting one hand on your chest. "I just met you, and I won't lie, I do like you." I watched your eyes light up at the sound of those words strung together. "But, I don't sugar coat shit, honey." You loved the way I called you honey.
"I'm not one for a sweet tooth," you told me, smirking nervously. You were trying to impress me with your wit, I could tell.
I laughed and rested my palm on your cheek. "See? You're cute. I can tell that you're into me, too. But I'm the kind of girl who likes to drink and smoke, who forgets to put her glasses on in the morning."
"I don't need glasses. I don't need my liver," you pleaded.
I smiled at you and I know you sensed the pity in my voice when I continued. "Frank, that's the name, is it?" You nodded, so excited. "Well, Frank, today is your lucky day. I'm about to let you take me out to lunch today. I'm free around one. Don't be late."
I continued walking up and down the shelves, and you kept on following me.
"It's only noon, little boy. Come back another time." I laughed, watching you scurry out of the library, through the doors and into the sun while I was cramped in the air conditioned air and the bookshelves.
Since that day, since that egg salad sandwich you bought me, and within every moment between, you've been loving me constantly, insistently. I told you I wouldn't sugarcoat things, and now it breaks my heart that I can't. Every honest word I speak snaps you into smaller pieces.
My sister told me that there are ten important firsts to every lasting relationship: the first time you meet, your first date, your first kiss, the first gifts you exchange, the first time you say 'I love you', the first time you have sex, the first time you meet each other's parents, the first time you fight, when he first proposes, and the first pregnancy test you buy. Not necessarily in that order, she told me. But, her theory is that, in order to be lasting, every couple must experience these things together.
We met in that library.
We dated at the cafe down the street.
We kissed on the stoop outside my apartment building.
You bought me reading glasses at the library, so I bought you a new case for your trusty Costellos.
You told me you loved me at midnight at my favorite bar over a bowl of mixed nuts, my empty glass, and your full one.
We had sex at your place amidst your comic books and novellas in your living room.
Your parents lived in a small town in eastern Illionois; my parents lived in a big city in New York. Your mom liked my "spunk" and my dad appreciated your sensibility.
The first fight didn't take long, you know. I found my ways to make my biting remarks and you were always so passive agressive.
The proposal came last. After everything. After the drugstore.
The lights were harsh and almost blinding. I felt like sheilding my eyes as I picked up box after box and tried to translate all of the gibberish into something I could understand. "They're just plastic sticks you piss on, dammit. What's with all this scientific mumbo jumbo?" I snapped.
You rubbed my shoulders in that way you had that always made me smile. Even there, even amidst all the shit we were in. "All you have to do it pick one," you whispered soothingly.
I couldn't, though. My head was spinning. I could read, I could breathe, of course I couldn't decide. I picked up every little box and tried to say to myself Yes, this is the one but there was no way.
Before I could decide, you got down on one knee and grabbed my hand. "Whatever happens after you take a piss on that plastic stick," you whispered to me. "I want you to know that I want to marry you, Pen."
My throat seized up and I collapsed onto the floor of that stupid, little CVS. "I'd marry you, too, Frankie. But, not right now. Not while my nails are black and my stockings are still fishnets. I'm no mother and I'm no wife, and I don't want your paracite growing inside me."
You wrapped your arms around me and kissed the top of my head. "Penelope," you laughed.
You weren't one to have a sweet tooth, and you had adjusted to my savory or sour language. Still, I wasn't laughing. I was shaking, I was shallow, and I was full.
I was so sick of your broken looks and the fact that you'd put up with me when I treated you like shit. But, I'd never dated a guy willing to propose in the Family Planning aisle.
We got checked out and I took a short trip to the bathroom, unleashing a storm of the Arizona teas I had chugged in the car ride to the store. You waited outside, sweating and on the verge of tears. When I returned, it only took me shaking my head to send both of us back onto the floor in a pile of formerly human puddles of relief.
"No family planning then, huh?" You asked, stroking my hair and kissing my forehead again and again.
"Hopefully not for a long time," I shot back, though I could tell your hopes had gone up for just a second. You blinked, and it was gone, but, I had seen it there when you looked at me.
You nodded and cleared your throat. "Hopefully not for a long time."
So, if my sister is right, we have a long time left for family planning. We are one of the couples that survived. We made it through the date, the kiss, and the gift exchange, 'I love you', the sex, and the parents, the fights, the propsal, and the pregnancy test. We've arrived, Frankie. Maybe someday I'll walk down a different aisle and find myself happy to be in your arms.
Until then, I'm happy being Ms. Penelope Schaffer with a job at a library, a geeky boyfriend, and a home in Los Angeles that most girls would kill for. I'm happy being sour instead of sweet and remembering all of those bitter memories with you.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Blurb #6
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
Word Count: 97
Title: Red-Orange Phone
---
Where is the line crossed between a late night and insomnia? I’m sitting in front of the telephone, caught up in a staring contest and the feel of cracking my knuckles, my neck, my toes, my back… The phone used to be red. It’s faded since I bought it, so it looks orange now. My gray eyes are drying out, turning white through and through. I pick it up, press the button with the big white 4 on it. With my thumb poised over the 7, I hit myself and put the phone down, assuming staring position.
Word Count: 97
Title: Red-Orange Phone
---
Where is the line crossed between a late night and insomnia? I’m sitting in front of the telephone, caught up in a staring contest and the feel of cracking my knuckles, my neck, my toes, my back… The phone used to be red. It’s faded since I bought it, so it looks orange now. My gray eyes are drying out, turning white through and through. I pick it up, press the button with the big white 4 on it. With my thumb poised over the 7, I hit myself and put the phone down, assuming staring position.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Blurb #5
Copyright Julia Bydulia
Word Count: 99
Title: 11 Different Ways
---
I wish you would stop popping up in my life in the most stupid, aggravating ways. Walking down the street, I’m reminded of you eleven different ways. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck and try to strangle you out of me, but, I can’t even strangle out the cold. The wind whips me left to right and back again. I stare at my shoes, the sidewalk; nothing helps. I wish you could have the decency to leave me alone, but, I should know better than to even think it, shouldn’t I? You and decency never got along.
Word Count: 99
Title: 11 Different Ways
---
I wish you would stop popping up in my life in the most stupid, aggravating ways. Walking down the street, I’m reminded of you eleven different ways. I pull my scarf tighter around my neck and try to strangle you out of me, but, I can’t even strangle out the cold. The wind whips me left to right and back again. I stare at my shoes, the sidewalk; nothing helps. I wish you could have the decency to leave me alone, but, I should know better than to even think it, shouldn’t I? You and decency never got along.
Blurb #4
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
I know it's technically Wednesday. Sorry about that.
Word Count:100
Title: Red
---
I kept the piece of fabric that got caught on the emergency ladder. I know you probably didn’t expect me to. That would fall under the column of me “not caring.” But, it was a violent red against the wet metal and pavement of the alley. I picked it up and tucked it in my pocket as I stood there, alone, and hoped you would come back. I know that being drunk is no excuse, so I won’t use it. Her lips were so cherry red and begging for a kiss. Begging the way you hadn’t in months. I’m sorry.
I know it's technically Wednesday. Sorry about that.
Word Count:100
Title: Red
---
I kept the piece of fabric that got caught on the emergency ladder. I know you probably didn’t expect me to. That would fall under the column of me “not caring.” But, it was a violent red against the wet metal and pavement of the alley. I picked it up and tucked it in my pocket as I stood there, alone, and hoped you would come back. I know that being drunk is no excuse, so I won’t use it. Her lips were so cherry red and begging for a kiss. Begging the way you hadn’t in months. I’m sorry.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Blurb #3
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
Word Count: 99
Title: The Blushing Bride
---
The air was sweet and full of the scent of the flowers that the bride had chosen herself. The grass was perfectly green, the chairs were in perfect rows, the temperature outside was not too warm or too cold. Max was standing at the altar in his tux, waiting for the blushing bride with the rest of the crowd. As the music started, everyone turned around to see her arrive on the arm of her father. "I love weddings," I whispered to my date. Then, I turned my head to look at him and realized the seat was empty.
Word Count: 99
Title: The Blushing Bride
---
The air was sweet and full of the scent of the flowers that the bride had chosen herself. The grass was perfectly green, the chairs were in perfect rows, the temperature outside was not too warm or too cold. Max was standing at the altar in his tux, waiting for the blushing bride with the rest of the crowd. As the music started, everyone turned around to see her arrive on the arm of her father. "I love weddings," I whispered to my date. Then, I turned my head to look at him and realized the seat was empty.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Blurb #2
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
Word Count: 93
Title: Road Trip
---
I pressed my forehead against the window and felt the cold jolt through my skull. “Are we almost there?” I asked, not feeling very optimistic about the answer. “No.” The word was like a popped balloon: you knew it wouldn’t last forever, but, you were hoping it would last a lot longer than it did. Then, in the end, all you’re left with is some brightly colored rubber and a very long drive home. I kept my head on the glass and closed my eyes. The world was more colorful behind my eyelids.
Word Count: 93
Title: Road Trip
---
I pressed my forehead against the window and felt the cold jolt through my skull. “Are we almost there?” I asked, not feeling very optimistic about the answer. “No.” The word was like a popped balloon: you knew it wouldn’t last forever, but, you were hoping it would last a lot longer than it did. Then, in the end, all you’re left with is some brightly colored rubber and a very long drive home. I kept my head on the glass and closed my eyes. The world was more colorful behind my eyelids.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Blurb #1
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
I used to keep a journal just for 100 word pieces of prose (blurbs). In order to keep me writing regularly, for this week I am going to post at least a blurb a day. That's up to and including next Saturday.
I'm going to be posting them on my tumblr, as well.
Word Count: 100
Title: Sweaty, Stuck, and Miserable
---
The floor was scratchy against my back. I regretted taking off my shirt, despite the crippling heat. Through the window, the stars were winking at me. I did my best not to scream. At the stars, at the heat, at myself. At him. There was no way around it, no way over it, and no way under it. I was sweaty, stuck, and miserable with no sign of any of it letting up. That, and the night seemed unwilling to break into day. I prayed for all of it to stop. But with my luck, prayer doesn’t do much good.
I used to keep a journal just for 100 word pieces of prose (blurbs). In order to keep me writing regularly, for this week I am going to post at least a blurb a day. That's up to and including next Saturday.
I'm going to be posting them on my tumblr, as well.
Word Count: 100
Title: Sweaty, Stuck, and Miserable
---
The floor was scratchy against my back. I regretted taking off my shirt, despite the crippling heat. Through the window, the stars were winking at me. I did my best not to scream. At the stars, at the heat, at myself. At him. There was no way around it, no way over it, and no way under it. I was sweaty, stuck, and miserable with no sign of any of it letting up. That, and the night seemed unwilling to break into day. I prayed for all of it to stop. But with my luck, prayer doesn’t do much good.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Cotton Candy Sky
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
The air was thick and sweet, carrying the sounds of summer bugs. The wood of the dock beneath my feet was damp and rugged, and it scratched my heels. I clenched and unclenched my toes as I stared at the blue-green water of the lake and considered jumping in.
Behind me, I could hear him breathing. He held laughter in the air he was exhaling, and I could feel the laughter inside of me and surrounding me.
I had waited all year for summer, but, now that I had it, I wasn't sure what to do with it. I tilted my head back and stared at the sky, which was covered in shades of pink. The clouds were floating, grey against all that cotton candy.
Without a sound, I walked on my toes to the edge of the dock and lowered myself so that my legs were dangling off the side. The very tip of my big toe touched the water and sent a shiver up my entire body. I swung my leg and sent ripples through the water, that were swallowed by the other small waves that were moving through the water.
I heard his footsteps behind me, and then he was next to me. He was warm where the water was cold. He pressed his whole left side into my right and I rested my head on his shoulder.
I wasn't sure what to do with summer. I didn't know what to do with the sky, or the dock, or the sticky, sweet air. It all seemed to big for me, surrounding me and swallowing me in waves of pink and blue and green.
I wasn't sure what to do with summer, but, I knew what to do with him.
I laced my fingers through his. I breathed in the air. I looked at the water, watched the ripples and the waves. The summer was too big for me to hold, but, maybe that's not what I needed. I just needed to be a small piece of it, linked together with him.
So there we sat. The clouds kept on rolling and the water never stopped moving, but, I was happy sitting still in the middle of it all.
---
The air was thick and sweet, carrying the sounds of summer bugs. The wood of the dock beneath my feet was damp and rugged, and it scratched my heels. I clenched and unclenched my toes as I stared at the blue-green water of the lake and considered jumping in.
Behind me, I could hear him breathing. He held laughter in the air he was exhaling, and I could feel the laughter inside of me and surrounding me.
I had waited all year for summer, but, now that I had it, I wasn't sure what to do with it. I tilted my head back and stared at the sky, which was covered in shades of pink. The clouds were floating, grey against all that cotton candy.
Without a sound, I walked on my toes to the edge of the dock and lowered myself so that my legs were dangling off the side. The very tip of my big toe touched the water and sent a shiver up my entire body. I swung my leg and sent ripples through the water, that were swallowed by the other small waves that were moving through the water.
I heard his footsteps behind me, and then he was next to me. He was warm where the water was cold. He pressed his whole left side into my right and I rested my head on his shoulder.
I wasn't sure what to do with summer. I didn't know what to do with the sky, or the dock, or the sticky, sweet air. It all seemed to big for me, surrounding me and swallowing me in waves of pink and blue and green.
I wasn't sure what to do with summer, but, I knew what to do with him.
I laced my fingers through his. I breathed in the air. I looked at the water, watched the ripples and the waves. The summer was too big for me to hold, but, maybe that's not what I needed. I just needed to be a small piece of it, linked together with him.
So there we sat. The clouds kept on rolling and the water never stopped moving, but, I was happy sitting still in the middle of it all.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Strike Us Like Matches
A continuation of Mini Golf.
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
Rain was pouring down in fat drops and slanted lines, though the sky was bright and blue. White felt clouds were glued to the skyline as we drove along the highway.
He was sitting behind the wheel and I was in the passenger's seat, my feet resting on the dash. "Where are we going?" I asked, tugging on my shoelaces and staring at my legs (shaved smooth the night before, in preparation for seeing him.)
He smiled and glanced at me. "Guess," he dared me devilishly.
I smirked and pulled on the bottoms of my shorts. "I don't know, Rich. The mall?"
He shook his head, keeping his eyes on the road. "Guess again."
"Mini golf?" I teased him, sticking out my tongue just because I knew he wasn't looking.
His cheeks flushed, but, he didn't say anything. He shook his head again and kept on driving.
I stopped guessing and he stopped telling me too, so we just listened to the rain hitting against the roof of the car. I looked at him once in a while, taking him in in my usual way, still blown away by the vastness of my feelings for him. I wanted him, I needed him, but, I knew I shouldn't have him. Danielle's words popped into my head for the thousandth time: Lil, you know it would crash and burn.
And that much was true. I knew it would crash and burn, but, I couldn't help myself. I still loved looking at his dark hair and how it fell in his face every time he turned his head.
"Can I put on some music?" I asked, resting my feet on the floor of the car and sitting up straight.
Without answering, he handed me his mp3 player. I took it and turned it on, smiling as I scrolled through the songs we both loved so much. I stopped on a Fall Out Boy song (labeled as The Fall Out Boys, one of our jokes) and played it, knowing I could sing along with every word.
"You are a getaway car, a rush of blood to the head, but me, I'm just the covers on top of your bed. You steer away in a rear view mirror, you make my head swim. I keep you warm and won't ask you where you've been," I sang, not looking at him. I didn't have to look to know he was watching out of the corner of his eye and listening sharply.
The guitar was strong and almost overpowered the rain, but, not quite. He joined in singing on the chorus, and we sang together, at the top of our lungs. "Strike us like matches, cause everyone deserves the flames. We only do it for the scars and stories, not the fame. At least everyone is trying, everyone is shining. Everyone deserves the flames but it's such a shame, such a shame."
It had been so long since I had listened to this song and it felt good to let the words slip from my lips again, to feel the chords ring through me again. I loved finding songs again and remembering every second.
"We're not going anywhere, are we?" I asked him quietly.
He didn't hear me over the music or the storm, but, I knew the answer. We were driving, moving, and it felt good. I felt good.
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
Rain was pouring down in fat drops and slanted lines, though the sky was bright and blue. White felt clouds were glued to the skyline as we drove along the highway.
He was sitting behind the wheel and I was in the passenger's seat, my feet resting on the dash. "Where are we going?" I asked, tugging on my shoelaces and staring at my legs (shaved smooth the night before, in preparation for seeing him.)
He smiled and glanced at me. "Guess," he dared me devilishly.
I smirked and pulled on the bottoms of my shorts. "I don't know, Rich. The mall?"
He shook his head, keeping his eyes on the road. "Guess again."
"Mini golf?" I teased him, sticking out my tongue just because I knew he wasn't looking.
His cheeks flushed, but, he didn't say anything. He shook his head again and kept on driving.
I stopped guessing and he stopped telling me too, so we just listened to the rain hitting against the roof of the car. I looked at him once in a while, taking him in in my usual way, still blown away by the vastness of my feelings for him. I wanted him, I needed him, but, I knew I shouldn't have him. Danielle's words popped into my head for the thousandth time: Lil, you know it would crash and burn.
And that much was true. I knew it would crash and burn, but, I couldn't help myself. I still loved looking at his dark hair and how it fell in his face every time he turned his head.
"Can I put on some music?" I asked, resting my feet on the floor of the car and sitting up straight.
Without answering, he handed me his mp3 player. I took it and turned it on, smiling as I scrolled through the songs we both loved so much. I stopped on a Fall Out Boy song (labeled as The Fall Out Boys, one of our jokes) and played it, knowing I could sing along with every word.
"You are a getaway car, a rush of blood to the head, but me, I'm just the covers on top of your bed. You steer away in a rear view mirror, you make my head swim. I keep you warm and won't ask you where you've been," I sang, not looking at him. I didn't have to look to know he was watching out of the corner of his eye and listening sharply.
The guitar was strong and almost overpowered the rain, but, not quite. He joined in singing on the chorus, and we sang together, at the top of our lungs. "Strike us like matches, cause everyone deserves the flames. We only do it for the scars and stories, not the fame. At least everyone is trying, everyone is shining. Everyone deserves the flames but it's such a shame, such a shame."
It had been so long since I had listened to this song and it felt good to let the words slip from my lips again, to feel the chords ring through me again. I loved finding songs again and remembering every second.
"We're not going anywhere, are we?" I asked him quietly.
He didn't hear me over the music or the storm, but, I knew the answer. We were driving, moving, and it felt good. I felt good.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
No Safety Net
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
Without meaning to, or trying to, or wanting to you snatched me up and held me still when the rest of the world was speeding forward without me.
Even you were moving, getting smaller and smaller until you were a dot on the horizon that I could barely see. Whether I was being blinded or just blindsided was hard to tell at the time.
In the morning, I would always try to keep you away from my mind, from my thoughts. When you sneaked in, you would poison me with the promises I remember you making (and forgetting).
In the afternoon, my bed was rock hard without you there to keep me safe in your arms.
Safe.
The word has warped and twisted into something-some concept-that I scarcely understand now. There is no safety in the insecurity I feel when I walk into a room, alone. That alone-ness is the parting gift you gave to me. It makes my skin crawl.
It was a Saturday. I know it was a year ago, but I remember it. It was a Saturday. That summer was sticky in more ways than one.
You made it seem like a day together. "I'll come over," you told me on the phone that Thursday. "We'll talk, ok? Just me and you."
The bed was soft. I sank into it with you, your arm around my shoulder and your fingers playing with my hair. You whispered the words, every letter like a knife, cutting me, tearing me apart. "I don't love you anymore."
And just like that, it all shattered. I came unglued; I fell apart.
Those little piles of hair surprised me. Who knew I could pull so hard? Pacing and talking in circles, I begged you to take it back. We could forget it and move on. Go get some ice cream, I said. I'll never stop loving you, I said.
You shook your head and slid on your jacket, but, I wasn't having any of that. I grabbed your arm and tried to keep you there with me.
You walked away, though. I wasn't holding on tight enough.
Now, I am alone. The sun burns. Everything burns. Without meaning to, or wanting to, or trying to, you pulled me close to you and held me there in your arms, and in your eyes. Everything but your thoughts.
Now, I'm all alone. No safety net and no more love. Just old CDs to listen to when I need to cry and empty rooms to remind me that you're not here.
---
Without meaning to, or trying to, or wanting to you snatched me up and held me still when the rest of the world was speeding forward without me.
Even you were moving, getting smaller and smaller until you were a dot on the horizon that I could barely see. Whether I was being blinded or just blindsided was hard to tell at the time.
In the morning, I would always try to keep you away from my mind, from my thoughts. When you sneaked in, you would poison me with the promises I remember you making (and forgetting).
In the afternoon, my bed was rock hard without you there to keep me safe in your arms.
Safe.
The word has warped and twisted into something-some concept-that I scarcely understand now. There is no safety in the insecurity I feel when I walk into a room, alone. That alone-ness is the parting gift you gave to me. It makes my skin crawl.
It was a Saturday. I know it was a year ago, but I remember it. It was a Saturday. That summer was sticky in more ways than one.
You made it seem like a day together. "I'll come over," you told me on the phone that Thursday. "We'll talk, ok? Just me and you."
The bed was soft. I sank into it with you, your arm around my shoulder and your fingers playing with my hair. You whispered the words, every letter like a knife, cutting me, tearing me apart. "I don't love you anymore."
And just like that, it all shattered. I came unglued; I fell apart.
Those little piles of hair surprised me. Who knew I could pull so hard? Pacing and talking in circles, I begged you to take it back. We could forget it and move on. Go get some ice cream, I said. I'll never stop loving you, I said.
You shook your head and slid on your jacket, but, I wasn't having any of that. I grabbed your arm and tried to keep you there with me.
You walked away, though. I wasn't holding on tight enough.
Now, I am alone. The sun burns. Everything burns. Without meaning to, or wanting to, or trying to, you pulled me close to you and held me there in your arms, and in your eyes. Everything but your thoughts.
Now, I'm all alone. No safety net and no more love. Just old CDs to listen to when I need to cry and empty rooms to remind me that you're not here.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Holly's History
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
The classroom felt small and sticky. Holly could feel herself sweating.
He was standing at the front of the room, his tie loose around his neck, holding the meter stick and using it as a pointer. She smiled despite herself at the way he almost spun when he turned around to write notes on the white board.
In front of her, DJ was sitting with her head down, surely scribbling something that had nothing to do with history, the subject of the class they were in the middle of. Behind her, she knew that Chris was sitting with one leg stuck out into the aisle, the other folded up under him as he intently took notes between drawing Pokemon.
The day was bright. Holly sat right next to the window, so it felt like she was in limbo between two completely separate worlds. One with bright green grass, mellow skies, and almost eerie murders of crows gathered; the other with tan, speckled ceiling tiles, tiled linoleum floors, twenty-two indetical chairs and a wall spattered with posters on famous African-Americans.
Her notebook was open and covered in song lyrics that were running through her head. She wrote the artist's name in bold, block letters and ran her fingers through her hair, looking up every so often to capture him in her vision and keep the image in her head.
There was a bass line pumping through her veins. She let it leak out through her pencil and let go of the notes she was supposed to be taking. There were days for history and there were days for this...whatever it was.
The classroom felt small and sticky. Holly could feel herself sweating.
Holly felt a lot of things. Everything and nothing, all at once.
---
The classroom felt small and sticky. Holly could feel herself sweating.
He was standing at the front of the room, his tie loose around his neck, holding the meter stick and using it as a pointer. She smiled despite herself at the way he almost spun when he turned around to write notes on the white board.
In front of her, DJ was sitting with her head down, surely scribbling something that had nothing to do with history, the subject of the class they were in the middle of. Behind her, she knew that Chris was sitting with one leg stuck out into the aisle, the other folded up under him as he intently took notes between drawing Pokemon.
The day was bright. Holly sat right next to the window, so it felt like she was in limbo between two completely separate worlds. One with bright green grass, mellow skies, and almost eerie murders of crows gathered; the other with tan, speckled ceiling tiles, tiled linoleum floors, twenty-two indetical chairs and a wall spattered with posters on famous African-Americans.
Her notebook was open and covered in song lyrics that were running through her head. She wrote the artist's name in bold, block letters and ran her fingers through her hair, looking up every so often to capture him in her vision and keep the image in her head.
There was a bass line pumping through her veins. She let it leak out through her pencil and let go of the notes she was supposed to be taking. There were days for history and there were days for this...whatever it was.
The classroom felt small and sticky. Holly could feel herself sweating.
Holly felt a lot of things. Everything and nothing, all at once.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Mini Golf
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
"Your turn!"
Rich, Danielle, and I were all playing miniature golf. It was Saturday, the course was a little bit soggy and the sky still looked damp from the light rain it had let down that morning. I was wearing my hoodie as protection in case the heavens decided to drench us again. It felt heavy on my shoulders, rolled up to my elbows.
Rich was leaning on his short golf club with its pink handle, staring at me intently while both of them waited for me to take my turn. He had shaggy brown hair and a long straight nose on which he wore a new piercing each day. Now, most times seeing a guy with a nose piercing is tacky, gross, weird, or a combination of all three. But, somehow seeing it on Rich every day just works. It does that on some people. He was tall and skinny with a lot of promise to keep getting taller without gaining an ounce of weight (if I could only be so lucky) like those trees they plant at the park when they "landscape" it.
I picked up my golf club (complete with a purple handle) and walked toward my bright yellow ball, sitting about ten feet away from the hole. I always felt like a giant on mini golf courses, even as a little kid, but, especially now, standing almost six feet tall while eight and nine year olds wait their turn with their mothers and fathers at other holes.
"Are we a little old for mini golf?" I ask, lining up the club, the ball, and the hole in my sights.
Danielle shook her head and beat her club against the green (is that stuff supposed to look like grass?). "How could you say such a thing? Blasphemy!"
I laughed and hit the ball roughly in the direction of the hole, missing it by about two inches. "Damn," I muttered, trying to be quiet enough to spare the children their innocence.
Rich stood up straight and strutted toward his magenta ball with purpose. "Move over girly," he said to me, pushing me slightly out of the way. "Watch how a real man plays his mini golf." He cleared his throat and shook out his arms before planting his feet and lining up the club and the ball and the hole exactly as I had done.
"A real man, huh? Do all real men wear their sister's prom dress?" I asked, smirking and waiting for him to look up.
He didn't, though. He spoke to his gold club and the green carpet-grass-thingy under his feet when he responded. "That was one time. I was nine. And you will not--"
"Let you forget it," I finished for him as he clenched his teeth and tried to relax his golf stance.
He failed.
Danielle was sniggering to herself, leaning on her gold club as Rick had casually been doing just a minute before. She had long, chocolate brown hair that reached the middle of her back when she wore it down. Then, she was wearing it up in a sloppy ponytail to keep it from making the humidity unbearable. She was nearly as tall as Rich with mountainous breasts (compared to my anthills) and a curvy physique. She was the best dressed fat girl at our school, and she knew it as well as everyone else.
When Rich finally took a swing at his ball, it flew off the green and into the rocks and he banged his club against one of the fake rocks that was scattered through the course.
"Rich. Time to take a deep breath and take the par five that you deserve. Move along," I instructed him. Danielle marked both of our par fives on the score card, underneath her par two, and we all walked down the cheesey stone path to the last hole.
"This is the big one. Sure you to ameteurs can handle it?" Danielle set her ball down at the beginning of the course and planted her feet the same way Rich did. She was the Queen of Mini Golf. We always played the castle course at at the end, Danielle would climb on one of its walls and announce that we were all her "loyal servants." It made me laugh and it made Rich scowl. I still wasn't quite sure why he still came to our mini golf shindigs.
I scoffed at Danielle. "You are going down, Smitherson. So. Far. Down."
She just laughed and swung her club, sending the ball directly into the first hole which sent it down to the next level. We all leaned over the railing to see it emerge from the pipe on the second level of the hole.
"Hole in ONE!" Danielle screeched, already halfway through her victory dance as I set down my ball to take my turn. "What's that? Three total? OH YEAH."
I laughed and tapped my ball politely, not wanting to hurt its feelings. I landed in the hole, but, when my ball emerged on the second level, it landed right next to the last hole instead of in it. I grunted in frustration and kicked the railing as Rich set down his ball. I crossed my fingers in my pockets for him, not wanting my good luck to be stolen by Danielle's eyes. It was for Rich.
His ball landed in the first hole and all three of us leaned over the railing, eager for a hole in one. Rich's ball rolled out of the pipe below and kept on rolling. Instead of ending up in the hole, his knocked mine inside and remained in mini golf limbo, directly on the edge of the hole.
He rushed down the stairs and started throwing a fit right next to the ball, screaming at it and banging his golf club all over the place as if the ball could hear and the club could feel.
"Are we going to get thrown out again?" I asked Danielle.
She shook her head, laughing. "I doubt it, but, he should probably try to avoid bending that club."
I smiled at him and nudged Danielle. "You know, I technically only hit my ball once--"
"Shut up. It counts as two, you mini golf loo-ooser." She bumped my hip with hers and swished away down the stairs.
I stayed up top, leaning on the banister and watching the two people I loved the most: one in a way we both understood, and another in a way I was too scared to communicate. Rich made my heart race, and not just because of his short temper. Something about those bottle-green eyes--
"LILIAN GET YOUR LOSER ASS DOWN HERE. WE'RE GOING OUT FOR ICE CREAM!" Danielle screamed at me. Rich was sitting, defeated, on the ground while Danielle started cabbage patching all over the course.
I laughed and started down the stairs.
---
"Your turn!"
Rich, Danielle, and I were all playing miniature golf. It was Saturday, the course was a little bit soggy and the sky still looked damp from the light rain it had let down that morning. I was wearing my hoodie as protection in case the heavens decided to drench us again. It felt heavy on my shoulders, rolled up to my elbows.
Rich was leaning on his short golf club with its pink handle, staring at me intently while both of them waited for me to take my turn. He had shaggy brown hair and a long straight nose on which he wore a new piercing each day. Now, most times seeing a guy with a nose piercing is tacky, gross, weird, or a combination of all three. But, somehow seeing it on Rich every day just works. It does that on some people. He was tall and skinny with a lot of promise to keep getting taller without gaining an ounce of weight (if I could only be so lucky) like those trees they plant at the park when they "landscape" it.
I picked up my golf club (complete with a purple handle) and walked toward my bright yellow ball, sitting about ten feet away from the hole. I always felt like a giant on mini golf courses, even as a little kid, but, especially now, standing almost six feet tall while eight and nine year olds wait their turn with their mothers and fathers at other holes.
"Are we a little old for mini golf?" I ask, lining up the club, the ball, and the hole in my sights.
Danielle shook her head and beat her club against the green (is that stuff supposed to look like grass?). "How could you say such a thing? Blasphemy!"
I laughed and hit the ball roughly in the direction of the hole, missing it by about two inches. "Damn," I muttered, trying to be quiet enough to spare the children their innocence.
Rich stood up straight and strutted toward his magenta ball with purpose. "Move over girly," he said to me, pushing me slightly out of the way. "Watch how a real man plays his mini golf." He cleared his throat and shook out his arms before planting his feet and lining up the club and the ball and the hole exactly as I had done.
"A real man, huh? Do all real men wear their sister's prom dress?" I asked, smirking and waiting for him to look up.
He didn't, though. He spoke to his gold club and the green carpet-grass-thingy under his feet when he responded. "That was one time. I was nine. And you will not--"
"Let you forget it," I finished for him as he clenched his teeth and tried to relax his golf stance.
He failed.
Danielle was sniggering to herself, leaning on her gold club as Rick had casually been doing just a minute before. She had long, chocolate brown hair that reached the middle of her back when she wore it down. Then, she was wearing it up in a sloppy ponytail to keep it from making the humidity unbearable. She was nearly as tall as Rich with mountainous breasts (compared to my anthills) and a curvy physique. She was the best dressed fat girl at our school, and she knew it as well as everyone else.
When Rich finally took a swing at his ball, it flew off the green and into the rocks and he banged his club against one of the fake rocks that was scattered through the course.
"Rich. Time to take a deep breath and take the par five that you deserve. Move along," I instructed him. Danielle marked both of our par fives on the score card, underneath her par two, and we all walked down the cheesey stone path to the last hole.
"This is the big one. Sure you to ameteurs can handle it?" Danielle set her ball down at the beginning of the course and planted her feet the same way Rich did. She was the Queen of Mini Golf. We always played the castle course at at the end, Danielle would climb on one of its walls and announce that we were all her "loyal servants." It made me laugh and it made Rich scowl. I still wasn't quite sure why he still came to our mini golf shindigs.
I scoffed at Danielle. "You are going down, Smitherson. So. Far. Down."
She just laughed and swung her club, sending the ball directly into the first hole which sent it down to the next level. We all leaned over the railing to see it emerge from the pipe on the second level of the hole.
"Hole in ONE!" Danielle screeched, already halfway through her victory dance as I set down my ball to take my turn. "What's that? Three total? OH YEAH."
I laughed and tapped my ball politely, not wanting to hurt its feelings. I landed in the hole, but, when my ball emerged on the second level, it landed right next to the last hole instead of in it. I grunted in frustration and kicked the railing as Rich set down his ball. I crossed my fingers in my pockets for him, not wanting my good luck to be stolen by Danielle's eyes. It was for Rich.
His ball landed in the first hole and all three of us leaned over the railing, eager for a hole in one. Rich's ball rolled out of the pipe below and kept on rolling. Instead of ending up in the hole, his knocked mine inside and remained in mini golf limbo, directly on the edge of the hole.
He rushed down the stairs and started throwing a fit right next to the ball, screaming at it and banging his golf club all over the place as if the ball could hear and the club could feel.
"Are we going to get thrown out again?" I asked Danielle.
She shook her head, laughing. "I doubt it, but, he should probably try to avoid bending that club."
I smiled at him and nudged Danielle. "You know, I technically only hit my ball once--"
"Shut up. It counts as two, you mini golf loo-ooser." She bumped my hip with hers and swished away down the stairs.
I stayed up top, leaning on the banister and watching the two people I loved the most: one in a way we both understood, and another in a way I was too scared to communicate. Rich made my heart race, and not just because of his short temper. Something about those bottle-green eyes--
"LILIAN GET YOUR LOSER ASS DOWN HERE. WE'RE GOING OUT FOR ICE CREAM!" Danielle screamed at me. Rich was sitting, defeated, on the ground while Danielle started cabbage patching all over the course.
I laughed and started down the stairs.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Sunflower
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
This is the first time in a while that I am going to be writing something really original.
---
Yellow and brown.
I looked the flower in the face and clenched my fist tight, resting it on the table in front of me, just inches away from the vase the flower was in.
I'm not sure why I saved the thing. I never wanted it. I tried to convince him not to give it to me, but, rejecting the gift would crush him and I knew that.
I released my fist and laid my palm flat on the table, its cold surface dragging down the temperature of my hot hand.
"I read somewhere that the sunflower represents foolish passion... and the sun, obviously. I got you the biggest one that the florist had."
He was so happy to be standing in front of me with that big, stupid flower. His smile was crooked, like it always was, and his eyes were shining, bright and blue.
I tried to smile, but, I knew it looked about as unhappy as I felt. I took the flower after arguing with him over it for a few minutes, then I walked to my car as fast as I could.
I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked away, burning a hole in my bumper as I drove home.
Yellow and brown.
The vase was clear and I could see the stem drinking, thirsty from the long, dry voyage to my house.
It's hard to say no when the only questions you're asked scream 'YES!'
His fingers brushed mine when he handed me the flower, and I could tell that he got his hopes up that I would reach back for a second touch. He was relishing in the feel of our skins together. I was not.
"Thanks, Danny."
I was nervous he would expect more. I wanted to leave more than anything.
My heart felt yellow and brown, but, not like a sunflower.
My heart felt yellow and brown, like a bruise.
This is the first time in a while that I am going to be writing something really original.
---
Yellow and brown.
I looked the flower in the face and clenched my fist tight, resting it on the table in front of me, just inches away from the vase the flower was in.
I'm not sure why I saved the thing. I never wanted it. I tried to convince him not to give it to me, but, rejecting the gift would crush him and I knew that.
I released my fist and laid my palm flat on the table, its cold surface dragging down the temperature of my hot hand.
"I read somewhere that the sunflower represents foolish passion... and the sun, obviously. I got you the biggest one that the florist had."
He was so happy to be standing in front of me with that big, stupid flower. His smile was crooked, like it always was, and his eyes were shining, bright and blue.
I tried to smile, but, I knew it looked about as unhappy as I felt. I took the flower after arguing with him over it for a few minutes, then I walked to my car as fast as I could.
I could feel his eyes on my back as I walked away, burning a hole in my bumper as I drove home.
Yellow and brown.
The vase was clear and I could see the stem drinking, thirsty from the long, dry voyage to my house.
It's hard to say no when the only questions you're asked scream 'YES!'
His fingers brushed mine when he handed me the flower, and I could tell that he got his hopes up that I would reach back for a second touch. He was relishing in the feel of our skins together. I was not.
"Thanks, Danny."
I was nervous he would expect more. I wanted to leave more than anything.
My heart felt yellow and brown, but, not like a sunflower.
My heart felt yellow and brown, like a bruise.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
If You Wish Me Luck, Heads Will Roll
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
Part XVI of a story with a working title!
---
The stage behind the curtain was dark. Michelle was washed in the shadows, standing just next to the light that was leaking in from the hall outside. That light was harsh in the hall, but, it was softened by its journey through the window in the door. Elena and Michelle were wandering around backstage, bored because they weren't needed on the stage.
"Do you see that light?'' Elena was leaning against the wall, rolling her head back and looking up at all the cracks in the wall.
Michelle looked up and followed Elena's eyes. "Oh my gosh, where is that coming from?" As she shifted her feet and her eyes back and forth, the light moved in the opposite direction.
"I don't know!" Elena was staring at it, too, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Michelle stole some glances of her, petite, blond, and beautiful. Pale like a porcelain doll. Her shirt was a bright but soft blue that hugged her body and wrinkled as her body moved. Michelle liked that blue looked in the shadows and in the light. She liked the softness of her hair that swung past her shoulders and tucked easily behind her ears.
"Is there a room on the other side of the wall?" Michelle asked, tucking her hair behind both her ears and keeping Elena in her peripheral vision.
"Yes, isn't there?"
They kept their heads lolled backward, their eyes glued to the crack in the wall that was leaking that angelic light on them. Elena had a smile spread on her face like marshmallow fluff. Michelle was in awe. She almost didn't want to figure out where the light was coming from.
"That's amazing," she whispered quietly.
Part XVI of a story with a working title!
---
The stage behind the curtain was dark. Michelle was washed in the shadows, standing just next to the light that was leaking in from the hall outside. That light was harsh in the hall, but, it was softened by its journey through the window in the door. Elena and Michelle were wandering around backstage, bored because they weren't needed on the stage.
"Do you see that light?'' Elena was leaning against the wall, rolling her head back and looking up at all the cracks in the wall.
Michelle looked up and followed Elena's eyes. "Oh my gosh, where is that coming from?" As she shifted her feet and her eyes back and forth, the light moved in the opposite direction.
"I don't know!" Elena was staring at it, too, shifting her weight from foot to foot. Michelle stole some glances of her, petite, blond, and beautiful. Pale like a porcelain doll. Her shirt was a bright but soft blue that hugged her body and wrinkled as her body moved. Michelle liked that blue looked in the shadows and in the light. She liked the softness of her hair that swung past her shoulders and tucked easily behind her ears.
"Is there a room on the other side of the wall?" Michelle asked, tucking her hair behind both her ears and keeping Elena in her peripheral vision.
"Yes, isn't there?"
They kept their heads lolled backward, their eyes glued to the crack in the wall that was leaking that angelic light on them. Elena had a smile spread on her face like marshmallow fluff. Michelle was in awe. She almost didn't want to figure out where the light was coming from.
"That's amazing," she whispered quietly.
I'm getting more and more biographical.
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
---
"They're not gay."
"They are so gay."
"I think they're just friends."
"Nerds."
"Band geeks."
"Faggots."
Max and John walked down the hall together, shoulder to shoulder, before school, between classes, and after school was over. John was taller by an inch or so, so he would lean down closer to Max's ear sometimes, so that he could be heard over the constant buzzing of the hallway.
"Have you heard the shit they talk about?"
"Shitty anime and some lame online game."
"It's sort of funny--"
"--one's so big and the other is so little."
Some kids like to laugh at them and point out their flaws and the weirder things. They hung on the details that accentuated their strangeness and dissected the things that made them stand out from the crowd.
"What about their clothes?"
"All those track suits that Max wears!"
"And all of the weird tshirts with animals that John wears!"
"I think Max is funny."
"He's a grade below us, isn't he?"
Speculations flew. About their musical and sexual preferences. About how they spent their time outside of school. About their grades, their other friends. People watched the way they walked and the way they talked. Some wanted to be like them, to know them. Some wanted to avoid them.
"They are such freaks."
"Have you heard how many people talk about them? They're more popular than you."
Max had a way about him that made certain people want to be around him. John was reliable to stay faithful to his personality, rather than changing himself for others. They were both unique in that way.
They made girls like me smile.
---
"They're not gay."
"They are so gay."
"I think they're just friends."
"Nerds."
"Band geeks."
"Faggots."
Max and John walked down the hall together, shoulder to shoulder, before school, between classes, and after school was over. John was taller by an inch or so, so he would lean down closer to Max's ear sometimes, so that he could be heard over the constant buzzing of the hallway.
"Have you heard the shit they talk about?"
"Shitty anime and some lame online game."
"It's sort of funny--"
"--one's so big and the other is so little."
Some kids like to laugh at them and point out their flaws and the weirder things. They hung on the details that accentuated their strangeness and dissected the things that made them stand out from the crowd.
"What about their clothes?"
"All those track suits that Max wears!"
"And all of the weird tshirts with animals that John wears!"
"I think Max is funny."
"He's a grade below us, isn't he?"
Speculations flew. About their musical and sexual preferences. About how they spent their time outside of school. About their grades, their other friends. People watched the way they walked and the way they talked. Some wanted to be like them, to know them. Some wanted to avoid them.
"They are such freaks."
"Have you heard how many people talk about them? They're more popular than you."
Max had a way about him that made certain people want to be around him. John was reliable to stay faithful to his personality, rather than changing himself for others. They were both unique in that way.
They made girls like me smile.
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Love is a creature of habit.
Copyright Julia Bydulia.
I know exactly what this is about, but I won't admit it.
---
Yes, when I picture that day, I see those wispy, smoky clouds dumping buckets upon buckets of water on our heads. I see you clinging those pizza boxes to your chest and looking for the dumpster. I see him, all cocky smirks and cigarettes. I can see it all as if I'd just gotten home, and my hair was still wet.
A memory like mine if a gift and a curse, some might say. I know the smell of the wet gravel in the parking lot and of the mud that we kicked up. The feel of the dirt that stuck to me with a little help from the rain.
The thing is, I don't always remember everything. It comes back to me in bits and pieces. Strips that I have to reassemble and make into one coherent thought, as if someone had taken my life and put it through a paper shredder. (Which, in essence, is what happened.)
I remember you.
I don't think I'll ever forget that day, though I'm still not sure what most of it meant. I'm highly confused most of the time, but, I don't usually like to show it. You confuse me, and so does he, but, I don't like telling anyone. I like to look smart, even when I'm dumb. And I can be very dumb.
I remember the rest of them.
No one else seemed to care that the three of us were building walls, walking in circles while they worked and ran to finish what had barely been started. We were bundled up in jackets and our own self assurances. They didn't look twice, and I sure as hell didn't want them to.
I want to be able to say all of the things that I felt then. I remember all of the feelings all too well and all too often. But, I keep them locked up on a cage in my chest, tearing me apart and holding me together at the same time.
Love is a creature of habit. And so are we.
I know exactly what this is about, but I won't admit it.
---
Yes, when I picture that day, I see those wispy, smoky clouds dumping buckets upon buckets of water on our heads. I see you clinging those pizza boxes to your chest and looking for the dumpster. I see him, all cocky smirks and cigarettes. I can see it all as if I'd just gotten home, and my hair was still wet.
A memory like mine if a gift and a curse, some might say. I know the smell of the wet gravel in the parking lot and of the mud that we kicked up. The feel of the dirt that stuck to me with a little help from the rain.
The thing is, I don't always remember everything. It comes back to me in bits and pieces. Strips that I have to reassemble and make into one coherent thought, as if someone had taken my life and put it through a paper shredder. (Which, in essence, is what happened.)
I remember you.
I don't think I'll ever forget that day, though I'm still not sure what most of it meant. I'm highly confused most of the time, but, I don't usually like to show it. You confuse me, and so does he, but, I don't like telling anyone. I like to look smart, even when I'm dumb. And I can be very dumb.
I remember the rest of them.
No one else seemed to care that the three of us were building walls, walking in circles while they worked and ran to finish what had barely been started. We were bundled up in jackets and our own self assurances. They didn't look twice, and I sure as hell didn't want them to.
I want to be able to say all of the things that I felt then. I remember all of the feelings all too well and all too often. But, I keep them locked up on a cage in my chest, tearing me apart and holding me together at the same time.
Love is a creature of habit. And so are we.
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