Outside the LinesInside the thin black lines,
Color there, they say.
So I do.
Look at that man with clothing
Colors crossing the borders that they set up
to protect our innocence.
A sigh of satisfaction,
hands on hips,
lips curling up.
A tea cup to be sipped from,
waiting on the tablecloth
A scribble to identify the man
whose clothing is too many colors
outside their lines.
No matter what, it'll spell out
Montagues and Capulets I believe in Sergei Prokofiev's "Montagues and Capulets". The first time I heard the composition was at my third piano recital. I have kept all my programs, and here in my hands, seventeen recitals later, is the program from November 16, 2003.
I don't remember Basil Sharikov-Bass, the performer, well because he only played in one more recital after that. When he quit, like many other people would in the next seven years, he must have only been a year older than I am right now. I have kept playing piano and performing at recitals, but people drop piano lessons all the time. It is disappointing to see how far they have come, only to cease playing. They lose interest, they find another activity, they don't have the time to practice-or they don't want to.
Last year, I had become increasingly unwilling to continue playing, and I rarely sat down to practic
Rest Stop The summer after my third grade year, my dad, cousin, and I went on a road trip to Disneyland. It was only our first day on our way there, and we decided to stop in Grand Junction when it was already dark outside. We entered the store at the gas station for my dad to get himself some coffee. My cousin David, who was my age, was a fanatic of sweets and, well, food in general. It wasn't pizza or fries or soda that caught his eye in this particular store. It was the section devoted to a great variety of sugary deliciousness. We were walking through the aisles looking at the different types of candy that were spread out before our eyes. Although I preferred chips, I wasn't in my arguing mood so I left him to choose from the variety of treats while I searched for the restroom. It was on the other side of the store, a sign with a figure in a dress marking it.
After using the restroom I
Post-ApocalypseI quietly sit alone.
I still have hope that it's either a nightmare, or that everyone will come back.
But that hope is slowly fading.
The day drags by and night falls upon the city.
And I'm ready to face the fact that I'm alone.
I've been completely abandoned.
This is my reality
Five days have passed and it still hasn't happened. I keep waiting for it to occur already. Maybe the suspense will kill me before IT does. I can't sort out my emotions: anger, grief, fear, they're all floating around in my head, driving me insane. Now that I think about it, I might go completely crazy and that'll be the death of me.
It's so quiet, I thought to myself on the first day. It was a Friday and I'd sat in my room all day, but nothing happened. I dozed off and expected to die in my sleep; however I woke up in the morning. I continued the same routine the next day and the day after, and here
Heil HitlerWe were best friends.
with his dark curls and brown eyes.
But he left one day
when the skies were dim,
and the clouds cried cold empathetic tears.
I didn't see him leave
he said it was for the Führer,
because my friend wasn't like us.
How was he different?
I found out after blowing out the nine candles on my cake that year,
when the uniforms and swastikas showed up.
"True German boys,"
they growled at us,
"Are the ones to succeed."
And so they welcomed me with open arms
full of prejudice and discrimination,
lusting to recruit me as Hitler Youth.
Joseph used to wear a Star of David around his neck,
but he stopped when people on the street started to salute,
A family down the street was taken
by those boot-wearing men.
I told my father I knew Joseph's family was like theirs,
and that the boot-wearers came for him, too.
I never got a response-
Father glanced at me through his spectacles
and resumed examining the letters
of the newest, juiciest words