The Spring Collection

                                                                             https://pixabay.com/photos/path-trees-wisteria-flowers-way-4284677/

Our year has come to an end as this is our last collection of writers for the 2023-2024 school year. I truly hope that you have enjoyed our writing blog.  We have 14 pieces this month of abstracts, personal narratives and quite a few flash fiction.  Please read the entire collection. Click on Older Posts at the end of pages to find the submissions, or you can navigate the Tool Bar on the left to the whole list. This group has waited all year to write.  They have read and commented on all of your original pieces.  Please give them the time and respect this month.  I know we are tired and have just a few weeks left of school.  Prom is here!  AP exams are around the corner and Grad Nite and Graduation are within reach.  Let's finish strong!

Please submit your comments for at least three submissions on the Discussion Board by Friday, May 10.

Seniors,

As you all know 2024 marks my final year in my teaching career.  My time in the high school classroom has come to an end, but surely it is not the end for me.  Like you, I am heading down a new  and exciting path.  I will continue to work with, support, help, and inspire young people to thrive.  I have had this beautiful opportunity to connect with my students' passions, interests, fears, goals, families and friends on this blog!  And I am grateful!

Although the blog will no longer be updated, it will remain here as an archive. This archive will forever be a collection of our time we spent together over this past year. Come to this blog and visit every once in a while when you may need to remember or just enjoy a respite.

Thank you for a wonderful year.

Class of 2024, you hold a special place in my heart. Until we meet again, and many of us will, I wish you blissful happinesses, manageable tough days and sadness (because, yes, you will have those and you need those--don't forget that!), successes and triumphs.

Remember to BREATHE. CREATE. WRITE. LIVE. And always FEED YOUR SOUL!

All my love,

Mrs. Solano

Death of a Court[ing] Jester--Caris

 

"Irreverent, libertine, self-indulgent, witty, clever, roguish, he is the fool as court jester, the fool as companion, the fool as goad to the wise and challenge to the virtuous, the fool as critic of the world." – François Rabelais

Day 1: Coreopsis Arkansa

In the Grand Hall, the Royal Court dined with outward conventionality. Conversation, punctuated sporadically with the chimes of silverware on fine china, blanketed the hall in a manner which would have an imperceptive onlooker turn away from the scene without a second thought. However, unbeknownst to the oblivious, but certainly not to the courtiers themselves, for they could feel every subtle spirit in the atmosphere of the palace—they had been trained to in the machinations of high society—there was an unusual tension haunting the hall.

While etiquette traditionally demanded the exchange of banal pleasantries over supper, this night an urgent political affair had seized the head of the table. The King and the Lord Chancellor were deep in dire discussion and their grave mood as an invasion on their repast was quite appropriate, seeing as an invasion was the very reason for the mood.

Anxious eyes flitted to and from the head of the table, like flies hanging around the skull of a fresh corpse. But, of course, decorum mattered more than curiosity; the courtiers knew this as much as the King knew order mattered most (a foreign war would be fought and won with loyalty while a civil one would be lost at the hands of distrust). So, signaling to the Lord Chancellor that the matter would be dealt with at a later time, he subsequently motioned to everyone else that the meal had ended.

The King as a benevolent sovereign knew how to divert the pests around the corpse back to propriety, and was only too eager to unveil his newly appointed jester as the balm for unrest. As he ushered in the entertainment, all eyes converged on the fool as he stepped into the spotlight. The jester cast a mischievous glance around the expectant assembly, his own eyes darting quickly before alighting upon the Queen. She sat beside the King in all of the dignified elegance afforded to her position. [And yet for a moment, an imperceptible change crossed her stony countenance as her eyes met the fool’s.]

The jester began his spectacle. With theatrical flair, he feigned a dramatic swoon, elicited a gasp of horror, directed a comedically quivering finger in the direction of a confounded lord sitting next to the Queen. Then, he made a hasty exit back through the doors of the hall. The curious flies now flew back to the head of the table, utterly confused at this behavior, but the King merely smiled, trusting his fool to deliver on the diversion.

The jester returned immediately and was greeted by the bewilderment, which finally melted into uproarious laughter as he brandished a modest yellow blossom. This he satirically presented to the lord whom his accusing finger found once more. The punchline was revealed; the jester's theatrics were caused by the courtier’s unsightly features, which were ironically accentuated by the futile attempt to mask them with the small beauty.

As the echoes of laughter gradually subsided, the court smiled in silent approval of the fool, and anticipation grew once more as they awaited his next display of wit. [The jester deposited the flower on the table next to the derided nobleman. A subtle exchange of glances transpired.]

The act carried through the night, and when the jester eventually took his final bow, the assembly was already awaiting his next performance.

[The yellow flower had disappeared from its inconspicuous place in front of the Queen.] The laughter shadowed the jester as he left the hall.

Day 2: Yellow Acacia

The King was profoundly grateful for the Court's embrace of the new jester, as he relied more heavily on diversion amidst the mounting concerns that besieged him but which he wished to keep from his court for as long as possible. But as the northern invasion loomed ever closer, and discussions of conflict became imminent, the shadow of his stress hung over the court and proved insurmountable even for the jester's whimsical distractions, especially as the voracious appetite for gossip never died as a court convention.

Nonetheless, the jester proved more than willing to continue his work. [And to continue incorporating flora into his acts, most of which ended up in the Queen’s purview. No one said anything, including her.] The King’s gratitude manifested in an especially warm smile and raucous laughter, even when the fool dared to compare the complexion of the monarch himself to that of a yellow flower.

As critic of the world, dismissed for his disposition, the jester again departed amidst the echoes of laughter.

Day 3: Jonquil

The horizon was officially marked with billows of smoke and an eternal dusk of blood-red portent. The imminent threat of invasion cast darkness not just upon the borders, but also upon the minds of the defenders, creating a secondary, psychological crisis that the King again resolved to confront with the jester as his sword and shield. The talent of the fool was now utilized to its full capacity and in one act, the dejection in his eyes seemed so genuine, as if to testify to his ability, when he humorously imitated the plight of a vanquished adversary clutching a white blossom in abject surrender. The court's laughter carried a sinister undertone, betraying their desire for the performance to become actuality when the dreaded war arrived. The King duly noticed and noted the steely mood. Now inspired by the jester’s politically charged satire, he looked after the fool’s heavy footsteps with new resolve.

[The Queen herself seemed disquieted at the sight of the blossom, or one could assume this from the fact her expression showed a trace of something shadowed, a sign of great affliction given her impassive visage usually remained unchanged.] 

Day 4: Cistus Gum

The King's deliberation over the declaration of war lengthened into exhaustive convocations with his innermost circle of advisors and commanders. The jester was given a seat in the conference. Not only a seat, but a special assignment, bestowed directly from the monarch himself. The jester’s eyes widened and he did not say anything other than his acquiescence.

At his next performance, the jester walked into the room holding a small white flower with papery petals. The Queen held court alone that day, as the King was fully engrossed in the exigencies of war preparations.

The Queen’s lips parted in sudden comprehension and her eyes widened.

In a sudden flurry of motion that prevented any timely reactions, the Queen commanded her guards to apprehend the jester and escort him to the dungeon. The fool offered no resistance, yet his pointed gaze bore an enigmatic intensity, hinting at something substantial yet unknown to those around him. [Except her.]

This was the first time he was not followed by laughter as he left the room.

Day 5: Forget Me Not

Upon hearing the Queen had wrongfully and rather foolishly accused his jester of stealing one of her favorite pendants and wearing it audaciously in court, and sending him to the dungeon as a result, the King immediately went to free the fool after chastising his wife and constraining her to her bedchambers, leaving her ladies-in-waiting with instructions to look after her as her mind was clearly addled from stress.

The King needed the jester to deliver a royal decree of war to the invading enemies. A high honor, as it would be a great service to his kingdom and a pivotal moment in history.

[When the King’s guards unlocked the cell, the fool looked up at him with the greatest expression of misery that the King mistook as a reaction for his being imprisoned.]

“You are free,” he said, but then handed him the fateful message.
And that night, the jester was sent to the enemy’s encampment. [Before he left, the jester entrusted

the guard with a small, blue flower. The messenger had a final message of his own.] 

                                                                                             ♦♦♦ 

The soldiers of the north were hardened by the climate of their country and the battle to expand it. Their rampage was hindered by no one, and the fires they used to consume wood and earth were as red as the trail they left in their wake.

A messenger arrived one night. The enemy commander smiled. He ordered his soldiers to seize the messenger who had delivered a declaration and demand for surrender, which was so amusing to him that he began to laugh.

The last thing the jester heard as he was dragged away was laughter. 

                                                                                           ♦♦♦

The King was notified the next morning that their demands for surrender were forcibly rebuffed. Forcibly, because the messenger’s severed head was delivered back over their borders by catapult.

The King sighed. Then he finished his tea and breakfast and prepared himself to address the War Council.

Day 6: Asphodel

The Queen had not left her bedchambers since the incident at court until the night of the jester’s return. She knew the truth, that only his head had found sanctuary beneath the earth.

A ghostly figure visited the graveyard that night.
And the next morning, the sun smiled at the lonely flower adorning the fool’s final resting place. 

[Not every language is spoken with words.]

https://www.gardeningchannel.com/flower-meanings-dictionary-from-a-to-z-the-secret-victorian-era-language-of-flowers/ 

I thought we were saved--Patricia

 

The following piece is written as a diary entry.

Entry One: May 1880
Posters about this land reigned through the fronts of each worn-down convenience store, each holding promises of a land with wonderful opportunities all to bring a fortune. I had a wife and three children by the time I boarded that ship. This very ship cost two generations' worth of savings from my grandfather’s side of the family. Like the many young men who filled that vessel one day, we all dreamt of saving our families from the rising living expenses and our unstable source of income coming from our suddenly barren fields hometown China. This journal is all I have left of my family, at least until I see them after striking fortune.

Entry 2: June 1880
After three long weeks at sea on the advertised “Pacific Ocean Journey”, we step foot onto a world filled of lush redwood trees with long lavish ferns that surround the path South. We move once the sun rises.

Entry 3: January 1882
It has been a while since I last wrote. Looking back, I cannot believe how optimistic I was. As we ventured south that day, we were stopped by some Americans. Their pale skin turned bright red the second they saw our group. Our captain pleaded with them in their native tongue and claimed we were traveling merchants doing our job. They scoffed, almost letting us pass until they saw our Chinese Flag on a man’s handbag. That marked my first of many one-sided fights. To this day, my chest is covered with scars, all with stories related to how unwelcome “my kind” is. Somehow, I landed a job as a merchant in the town surrounded by many other young Chinese men with backstories similar to mine. I’ve managed to find shelter in a worn apartment in the bay of town.

Entry 4: June 1882
Some “land of dreams”. My neighbors have been talking about this new act as they had heard some Americans screaming joy about it. Just the other day, one of the hotels, which held the homes of at least a hundred men, was set on fire by some Americans. This continued periodically throughout the week; the streets reigned with ashes and hanged bodies of men “my kind”. I am less of a human over here than back home.

Entry 6: June 1899
When I was out selling products to the people of this town, I overheard some shop vendors talking. On the ship that transported goods from China to this bay, they personally saw two bodies cast away at sea. Oh, if only I had enough money to send more letters to you my dear! I sure hope you are all well.

Entry 5; April 1900
Today, I celebrate my 45th birthday. Letters cost too much to spend back home now, so, I will dedicate this journal to my wife when I finally return. It has been 20 years since I boarded that ship. From all the Mandarin newspapers, the “Chinese Exclusion Act” is the very reason why all the hotels are cramped with other Chinese people. I share my small space with three other roommates; the rusted pipes often leak sewage water on adjacent corners of the room, rats often run through the tile cracks that line the second-story floor, and our sole wooden mattress was shared in turns with each roommate. No matter what, I must stay clear of those Americans. Those very same group lynched my neighbor just last week. At this rate, I can barely find change to save myself from starvation.

Entry 7: May 1990
As I was heading to my supplier in the heart of this filthy town this evening, I eavesdropped on drunken gamblers talking about a dead body in their building. They vented about the body’s appearance as if it were covered in blackened dots like on the backs of ladybugs. As they shouted over their game of poker, they mentioned something about a coffin shop and a hidden cellar. I’m not too sure. Before they could have said anything else, the boxes of supplies were already in my hands and it was time to go.

Entry 8: March 1901
I don’t know why this is happening. White Americans reign on our beloved town, demanding a “12-block quarantine”. This term was translated by Chinese scholars who learned their language simply to beg for peace. The translator explained that the Whites heard cries of nearby men, with screams that gradually grew louder than the squirming rats; each was found with sudden blackened pustules leeching off their armpits, ears, or thighs. First, there was just one case on the upper floors of the building across the block; this turned into two, which later turned into four. What has this land done to us? Why are other Chinese people getting sick all of a sudden? Sickness drives away customers.

Entry 9: April 1901
There was a meeting today. Downtown. Vendors, shopkeepers, and even grown children joined in to hear the announcements. Normally, we would all run at the sight of them but this time, at the center, the white man screamed in disgust at our living habits. Who was he? He was the reason why we had to live like this... isolated in dirt from “their kind”. They spread papers filled with Mandarin characters. It read that if the Americans in white gowns find so much so any filth, they will not hesitate to burn away the town. Mutters spread like scurrying rats as children returned to their families holding the flyers. I don’t know if I can last here any longer, love. This land was a trap.

Entry 11: June 1902
Last evening, it was my turn on the bed after yet another failed business day. These rats have been living here for free! To think that this, now, may be the least of my problems. In the midst of nightfall, I woke up with a sudden fever; the next hour came uncontrollable vomit. My roommates woke, slowly tending to me. We’ve been trapped in this cubed room for nearly a decade now; they’re my second family. My head continues to pounce. Arrangements to visit the doctor will wait until morning.

Entry 12: June 1902

I’ve never had a fever like this. I’m writing this in the hidden basement of the hotel as the cloaked men savage our homes for filth and sickness. Just the other day next door, they found a child who was burnt to the touch. Yet despite the mother’s desperate cries, these heartless beings strip away her child. The search for the taken child adds to the countless others missing. Why us? All we did was work... and hope. We hoped for salvation. Was that too greedy?

It’s the same day. The Whites are gone but they left a message displayed on the walls surrounding the front desk. My roommate read the printed Mandarin characters. “Come to our hospital if you feel any of the following symptoms: sudden headaches, fevers, vomiting, or formation of sudden black pustules. Location at Jackson and Stone. We can save you”. As if they expect us to trust them! After killing not only the lives of other Chinesemen but also the dreams his family must have wished? After making our families in China believe that we suddenly abandon them after our “supposed” fortune here? Suddenly, they wish to save us instead of burning us away.

It’s evening now. The Chinese herbs have calmed down my fever. I hope that this common sickness passes quickly.

Entry 13: January 1902

Why is this happening to me? What happened to the promises this land preached? In China, when one gets sick, it’s a simple burning sensation in the foreheads; this usually clears after 2 nights of rest. Why, in this land, does sickness imply black dots on my thighs? The Chinese doctor has not heard of this sickness and simply prescribed the natural herbal medicines. My roommates failed to report my sudden black pustules to the Americans in white gowns this evening. They are protecting me.

Entry 14: Next Day
How did this happen? Was it because of the stinky tofu I had for dinner a couple of days ago? What choice did I have other than to starve? My roommates appeared to be normal. In their sleep, they’ve been inching away from my muffled vomits. Honey, if somehow you get this journal, I want to tell you that I would have never abandoned my family. I’m sorry.

Entry 15: Nightfall

I’m trapped, rotting in this cellar. My roommates turned on me, explaining how they would be bound to be infected with the same black, inflamed dots as me. Why can my body fight it? No matter how much I scream, there’s no one here besides the bodies of the sick, fleas, and scrimping rats. This is my last entry. I’m sorry that I’ve failed you. 

1, 2, 3...10.--Gabriel

 

Butterflies are such interesting creatures. Small bodies, big wings, but what makes them stand out are their beautiful and vibrant colors. Such beautiful little insects that you’ll see in such beautiful areas; on a pretty flower, in a large pasture, or even just the greenest of green bushes, they add so much natural color to the world, even if they’re rare to see around. In Filipino culture, butterflies signify loved ones who have passed away and spotting one means someone's trying to say “Hello!”. It may be a myth, but personally, I don’t think so.

It’s December, 2022 in California, cold but unpredictable due to global warming and changing weather. My grandparents just got back home to the Philippines after spending a while of their time here in the states. “Ang sarap jan sa America, babalik kami kasama ang mnga titas, titos at pinsan ninyo!” Said my Lolo (grandfather). Translated, he said, “It’s so nice there in America, we’ll come back with your aunts, uncles, and cousins!”. He spent around 3 months here in the states while my Lola (grandmother) spent a couple years here working. I’m so sure he had a great time; old, bald, filipino man who got to spend 3 months in the US cooking, gardening, drinking, gambling, and spending time with his family. He got to go to Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and on so many different adventures during his stay. It was bittersweet watching them go up the escalator at LAX to their flight; watching them leave after getting used to their presence at home and the slight changes in our previous daily routines, but knowing that they’d go back home to their home country and laugh and play even more in the Philippines. Things felt a little gloomy around the house without our personal Filipino Santa there anymore but knowing that he’d try to come back the following year was comforting enough to excuse the gloomy and sad emotions.

But fast-forward to December 17th, 2022, only about 6 days since their departure. It started off normal; wake up, shower, eat, then stay on my phone until something interesting happens or until it’s time to go out since it was a saturday. After about 6-7 hours of rotting in bed – eyes glued to a screen, doomscrolling instagram reels or watching random youtube videos – I finally got out of the house just to run some nightly errands. We got to the store at around 6-7 PM and planned on just walking around and looking at whatever we may want or need so I broke off from my family to just look around; I found your usual jeans, shoes, shirts, everything was just a repetitive maze of all the retail things you could think of. After some time I finally came back to my family and that's when everything hit. “Why is my mom on the floor crying?”, “What’s going on?”, “What happened?”. All these thoughts rushing to my head just to be cleared by the incoherent words that my mother spoke between the breaths that she managed to take so quickly, “Tito Mac is gone.” I was shocked of course, what could I say? I was so confused and couldn’t figure out what to say, what to feel, what to do. “Is this real?”, “Is this a joke?”. I found the source of all the distress to be an international phone call from neighbors in the Philippines. “Nasusunog na ang bahay ninyo!” (“Your house is on fire!”) said the person on call. Time stood still as I tried to process this joke of a sentence; while trying to figure out the words to say it finally resumed and I was somehow outside with my aunt, uncle, and cousin who came to pick us up. It was as if life just glitched like when a TV “hangs” or pauses then resumes at a whole different part of a show, as if I blanked out and just woke back up. With tears still soaking t-shirts and hands shaking in disbelief, we headed over to my aunt’s house in which the Filipino newscaster started counting, “1, 2, 3... 10.” Ten people. Ten living people. Ten living humans. Ten family members. I couldn’t do anything that night but sit and cry. Same with the next night, and the next night, and the next after that. Over and over and over until the strongest of emotions finally passed inorder to let us breathe and figure out the situation, to finally be a little more in control and reasonable.

It’s been about a year now and I was able to go to the Philippines in December, 2023. I think only then, only recently, I was finally able to accept or realize the truth. After seeing 5 flat stones in the grass, each of which for a pair of 2 butterflies. After dropping tears on each of the 5 stones. After visiting day, after day, after day. I was finally able to say goodbye. “Why?” you might ask? Because I saw 10 beautiful butterflies, playing through the leaves of the great tree that stood and gave the stones shade and peace. They visited, said hi and even left with goodbyes. But I hope that I’ll see those butterflies again, whether it’s a pair of 2 older butterflies, or the pair of a mother and father butterfly, or a pair of a mother and a son butterfly, or a group of 4 younger butterflies playing in the trees. I’m glad I saw them all together, just one last time, fly peacefully and gleefully. I miss you Lola, Lolo, Tita Cherry, Tito Mac, Tita Anna, Matty, Kuya Andrei, Kuya Jero, Manny, and Pipay. I hope you guys fly safe and peacefully in whatever garden you guys have found. We’ve planted flowers for you in the front yard. Don’t take things for granted, cherish all the moments you have, even the little things, like seeing butterflies. 

Love...--Makena

 

    For the past 10 years of my life at age 15, the Fourth of July did not mean fireworks or barbeques or parades. For me, it could be two things; a shiny medal or tears of defeat. But for a specific July 4th in 2019, it meant something completely different to me. If I could go back in time and stop five-year-old me from going into that studio, if I could tell her to run away, to choose something else, I would.
Taekwondo was a sport introduced to me after I ran into my mothers arms begging her to take me out of the “spinny” class (aka ballet). My parents decided to enroll me into a class that could keep me busy, but also teach me how to defend myself. For a month I did a half hour class for Knockout Martial Arts, and I absolutely loved it. And then my dream came true when the coach's daughter came up to my parents and I advertising the “Open House” tournament at the studio. I was ecstatic, I wanted to get into the ring and see what taekwondo was really like. My dad was all for the idea of me trying out the tournament, but my mom was reluctant at the fact that her five year old daughter was about to go into a violent fight match with little experience. But my dad and I convinced her. So on a hot sunny Saturday, I walked into a makeshift martial arts studio that was once a warehouse, and I couldn’t be more happy. I don’t recall how I did, but I do know that I wanted more.
    The next nine years were a mix of some of the best and worst days of my life. I had finally found my calling, I was with great teammates, an amazing coach, and I was in a sport that I loved, but most of all, I was good at it. In that span of nine years, I had spent every Fourth of July in some part of the country fighting for the title of “National Champion”. Winning that title three times definitely contributed to some of my “best” days, of course. And also maybe, becoming a third degree black belt. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was proud of myself. I was becoming the person I had worked so hard for.
    But all great things come to an end. And despite the amount of love I had for taekwondo, I knew that what I was doing was wrong. At age 8 taekwondo changed, I didn’t realize it yet, but it was a change that still affects me to this day. For those of you who don’t know, competitive fighting in taekwondo involves weight categories. You would fight other competitors around the same age within a 7-8 pound weight category. Now at first, this was not a problem for me. At 8 to 10 years old my metabolism was lightning fast and I didn’t have a care in the world for what I ate. Then one day I was told I couldn’t eat my PBJ because it was “too heavy” and this continued with all sorts of food that would involve me gaining weight. During the summer I would only eat tuna and 6 crackers for lunch, and my 5pm dinner would be only grilled chicken. In between and after these meals, I was practicing. This became an everyday agenda, this became my normal routine. Despite all of this, I still loved the thrill, the challenge, the fight. I grew up in that studio, surrounded by people my age, younger, and older than me all going through the same thing. We would compare our weight every single day. “How much more do you have to lose?” became our “Hey, how are you today?”
    The year that I remember most vividly is my last year when I realized my parents love the sport more than I loved it. My parents' obsession with the sport drove me to realize that I stopped fighting in the competitions because I wanted to, but because they wanted me to. I watched my teammates, my friends, finally get the courage to confront their parents and leave the sport. I couldn’t do that. It seemed like I was watching myself hurt my own body so that I could please my parents for a sport that they love. For my final tournament, I remember re-breaking a finger that I had previously broken due to not receiving the proper treatment because I “wouldn’t be able to fight”. Only then did I realize at that moment that I had fallen out of love. Taekwondo was my first love, and yet, years later I am still learning what love is. Love can be the most painful thing, but if you learn how to accept and how to grow, then it can be the most beautiful experience anyone can (and will) have. 

Talking--Colleen

 

Such a simple word with such a complicated meaning to this generation, talking is directly defined as engaging speech, however, the definition in this generation is completely subjective. It might sound weird that a word with such an obvious definition has an alternative definition to an entire generation, but this generation is definitely known for being different from the generations before. Talking is such a complicated term defining the start of a possible relationship. Talking could go on for weeks, months or even years and what are the rules? Is there commitment? Should there be flowers and dates? Where are the boundaries? These questions are answered differently depending on each person and their goal of the relationship. Typically there is a lack of communication between the individuals which leads to a whole mess of hurt feelings and rumors. A lack of communication at this stage is fatal to the overall relationship, possibly leading to a situation in which one individual is left so damaged it affects all relationships they have moving forward. Talking stages very rarely end positively (leading to a lot of awkwardness in the halls), people of this generation are forgetting that their actions have consequences when another person's emotions are on the line. Talking typically includes a lack of commitment, a stage where people can still explore their options. The introduction of this new stage before dating has opened a whole new set of problems hurting this generation. Relationships nowadays are so much harder and nothing like how they used to be, there are less gentlemen and more nonchalant men. Women are being mistreated and placing the bare minimum on a pedestal, grateful they aren’t being used for their body for once. Manipulation is becoming so common any other treatment is practically unheard of. These new trends may be a lack of maturity in highschool, a side effect of covid, or easy access to people with social media making commitment seem impossible and options seem endless.

Everyone of this generation has experience with talking whether is through a friend or personal experience(it's typically not a good experience). Not meaning to bore anyone with my horror stories of the talking, but just to vaguely some up a few. My first talking stage was about 2 years and was probably the most confusing point of my high school career. We both felt different feelings, only one wanting commitment and a complete lack of communication created a mess of a relationship(we aren’t even friends). Another example, being a coworker of mine, I wanted to pursue a relationship, he was “ruined” by his last relationship and was avoiding commitment. Without either of us stating a clear motive for the relationship each time we saw each other we had different expectations, leading to me being hurt and feeling unvalued(he remained unfazed). Maybe I have bad taste or maybe this generation is toxic, but talking is a traumatic event for most, but in some cases it can end in a great relationship. Though I complain about the trauma of talking, I think it's important to value every experience and the lessons they teach you. Without those talking stages I wouldn’t be who I am today, I am so grateful for those I got to meet, spend time with, and appreciate, but I really wish we made it out the talking stage.

The Almost Dog Days--Nessa

 

    June. Everything in flux, our futures gaping wide and fathomless, rushing toward us like a river gorged on snowmelt. Two months after the letters came in (the house party crowded with balloons in blue and red, cake with “UPENN” scrawled over it in spidery frosting letters, his whole family and me squashed into his backyard while ribs smoked on the grill)—a month after graduation (every face we’d ever known packed twenty to a row in the pea green expanse of the football stadium, tears flowing, speeches suered, caps thrown, the whole four-year nightmare forgotten as the two of us bustled to a late-night diner to make ourselves sick on pancakes)—on a drowsily hot Saturday, I called him.

    “You busy?” He, I knew, was freshly home from an internship: a three-hour flight away he had donned a white coat, poured cells from one dish to another, ran simulations that sketched multi-colored lines across a darkened screen. He’d sent me pictures.

    “Umhh,” he said. “I’ve got essays. But I can finish ‘em tomorrow. What’s up?”

    I didn’t know how to ask. “Do you—” I hesitated, forged on: “Do you remember the creek? Down where we used to live?”

    “Course, why?”

    “I was thinkin’, I mean, with everything, it would be nice to go down there again. Just walk around like how we used to.”

    “Oh,” he said. “Uh...” A confused pause, a little painful. I could almost see him on the other end: that slow, owlish blink he’d had since when we were kids, the one he did when he couldn’t figure me out.

    “I know it’s weird”—it was all coming out in a rush—“I mean, no pressure, obviously. But my dad said I could take the pickup, so I can drive us. If you want. I just thought—we only have a couple weeks. Before we...” I did not finish. I could not voice the thought, terrible in its unfamiliarity: we had to go. Him to Pennsylvania, me to community college a city over. Miles and miles between us. It was unbearable.

    “Yeah, no,” he said. He was reluctant to leave his work, but also to refuse me. “Course. If you want to... Yeah. Before we go.”

                                                                                    ☼

    I had not been in this part of town for years and years. It looked nearly the same, but somehow deader: the pale shutters bleached to the color of bone, rows of old clapboards sitting quiet as the grave. We parked at the curb across from my old house. It was identical to the others but for the magnolia in the yard, spitting pale blooms onto the straw-colored lawn. Someone had taken down the tire swing. I didn’t like the sight of it, the tree’s dark arms naked and cheerless, so I looked down at my arms as I slathered them with cream, sunscreen first and then mosquito repellent. All the while the sun beat down on us like a pair of scorching fists.

    We looped around the houses and headed downhill. We kept up a steady chatter: a girl I’d been texting, my lifeguard gig, his dream cars. We’d come down this way ten thousand times before, when we were kids; to do it now was somehow surreal, like walking through a dream. By the time we reached the forest proper we’d fallen silent, under some kind of spell, no sound but crunching grass and our breathing. Gradually the woods thickened; the air cooled. The smell of exhaust gave to the rising scent of moist earth. Twenty minutes in we started to hear the rushing hiss of moving water. I sped up, excited. He called after me; I did not slow.

    The trees opened; the sound crescendoed. I stopped and drank in the sight. Before us ran the bright, broad ribbon of the creek, the sun dappling white over green, the water crystal clear so that we could see the rocks in grays and browns pebbling the bottom. I felt the mist of it against my face, thrown by the breeze, and grinned. I was a boy again, in awe of the world, everything alive and timeless.

    “Oh man,” I laughed, and looked at him, sure that he could not help but share in the exuberance of a secret place—ours, where nothing could touch us. He was smiling too, a sight that warmed me, like whiskey, with intolerable relief.

    I rolled up my jeans to just below the knees; he followed suit. I shucked my shoes, but he gave me a look and kept his sneakers on. We walked.

                                                                                  ☼

    “I’m not sayin’ I don’t like Meteora,” he was saying, “There’s good songs on there. It’s just wild that you think it’s their best. Hybrid Theory is better, no contest.”

    “You’re just biased ‘cause that’s the first one you heard. You weren’t gonna like nothin’ better after that.”

    By the time we sighted our flag, my collar was sticking to my neck with sweat. We approached, and I marveled that it was still there: a pole stuck in the ground in the shade of an oak, three feet tall with a scrap of Theo’s shirt knotted around the end. His mother, he’d said, had given him hell when he showed up with a big strip missing o his tee. It marked HQ, when we were spies; our mountain hideout, when we were cowboys. Now it was respite. We sat.

    “God in heaven, it’s hot,” I breathed. “Better down here than back at home, but still.”

    “Yes, sir. Dog days are almost here.”

    Almost dog days—almost July. We were meant to start packing then, is what my momma said; packing and, come August, moving out.

    As if he’d read my mind, he said: “Not too long until we’re out of here, huh?” There was anticipation in his voice, in the way he looked o past me as if seeing some glorious future in the shrubbery behind me. For some reason this annoyed me unspeakably. 

    “Gonna miss this place,” I said, trying to steer him, anchor him here.

    He plowed on, not hearing me. “I gotta buy sheet covers and things for my dorm. And mountains of blankets. In Philadelphia they get blizzards some years, can you imagine? Did I tell you, my roommate said—”

    “Can you shut up about UPenn?” The ugliness in my voice startled us both, but I couldn’t stop. “It’s the only damn thing you talk about these days.”

    He looked at me, not a little hurt. “Man, I’m excited about it. Aren’t you excited for college and all?”

    This question struck me as horrendously stupid. “I’m not goin’ to an Ivy in Pennsyl-fuckin’-vania, Theo, I’m headin’ a few miles down to Canuta State. Hell, I’m just goin’ ‘cause I didn’t know what else to do.”

    “You don’t have to make that my problem,” he said, brow furrowed. “I get that you don’t have stu figured out, but you don’t have to take it out on me.”

    This stung. I felt my rage, a rising tide, spilling out from some implacable reservoir. “Like you got everything figured out for yourself? You’re flyin’ blind same as me, so don’t try to act like you’re better than me.”

    Silence roiled between us, ugly and hot. I stared at the dirt between my feet, stewing, too indignant to regret, just yet, what I had said. I was angry that he didn’t understand me; I was angry because this was not even what I wanted to argue about.

    Finally, he said, “I don’t know why you can’t just be happy for me.” His anger was terrible in its restraint.

    “Theo,” I said, quiet, and then louder: “What is even so great about that ancient ass school?”

    “It’s one of the best in the nation,” he said stiy, “and ‘sides, it’s beautiful.” He was so sure. Of where he was going, why he was going there: away from everything he knew, away from me. “And I met some great people there, some of the smartest, most impressive people I ever—”

    I burst out, “Aren’t you going to miss this place at all, Theo?” What I meant, and what I wanted him to hear was, aren’t you going to miss me?

    “This town? This random ass creek in the woods? I’ve been here all my life, man.” I closed my eyes against him, something inside of me twisting irreparably. “I’m gettin’ pretty tired of white houses and the same five hundred people. I’m sorry I want somethin’ more from the world and you just want to be stuck here.”

    More than me. All at once the energy was out of me; I was not angry but crushingly sad. I rose; I put on my shoes; I walked and didn’t care if he followed. We got in the truck and didn’t say a word to each other the whole ride home.