Sarah, She’s Still In the Womb: Short Story

I dont know how long its been since I last saw vacant car lots filled up with cars. Has everybody moved away? Am I a singularity, a lone youth wolf out in the wild, separated from the pack? Will I return to school only to see the hallways and staircases emptied?

 The parks are filled only with shadows and empty benches. One little girl is playing on the swing, but I don’t see her parents. I have an urge to go up and talk to her, but something tells me she knows what to do. Her bright chestnut hair is long and plaited, with big pink bows at the ends. I thought she was smiling, but it was just my imagination. I think she wants to think to herself.

I walk to the street up ahead and buy an ice cream. I’ve taken my camera so I can go to the thrift store later and see if there’s anything pretty around to take a picture of. There is. It’s a little worn book of hymns the size of my palm. It’s brown and leather with little gold lettering. The lady at the counter says no pictures. I snap one anyway when she’s not looking. 

The next day is the first day of school. Trouble is, I’ve forgotten how to wear clothes. What looks good. What is acceptable to wear in public. I wear an old plaid dress from my uniformed schoolgirl days with a forest green cardigan on top. Something about it seems wrong, but I don’t quite know what it is. I keep it on anyway, drawing on a line of kohl pencil on my eyelids. Is that how people do it? Unsure of myself, I scarf down a bowl of cereal and grab a banana as I head out the door, kissing my mother goodbye before heading out the old worn secret path I took to school. 

Something stops me from taking a back-alley route though, and I swerve back onto the main road and bump into an old acquaintance from school. He’s supposed to be a year older than me. Black greasy hair and tall; he’s thin, with big, green-blue eyes. He looks depressed, a little sunken into his body, his frame isn’t necessarily  bony but out of shape. He manages to smile as i shyly reintroduce myself.

“Sarah” I say say, my voice soft, hardly there.
“Peter” he replies, with the same reticent tone.
I shrug it off. everybody’s anxious on the first day, right? 

Math and Biology are a bore.  All the teachers are handing out their syllabus papers in various colors: pink, yellow, blue, green, orange. I guess the school still hasn’t gotten enough money for real school office supplies. Peter is in every one of my classes. I think he was held back a grade, he’s supposed to be in college. But he hardly notices me, looking down at his feet or rolling his pencil back and forth over and over again on his desk, humming to himself, doodling, or staring blankly at the wall, the window, the blackboard. 

Time runs endlessly like this, slow and unvaried, and I find myself falling into a strange rhythmic oblivion. I should have left this town two months ago with the rest of them, I decide mournfully, my thoughts turning once again to peter. He suddenly stares back at me, his gaze intense and long, eyes like flashing rivets in his skull. I don’t know whether I ‘m dreaming or if I’m ever awake, for that matter. All I know is that I might as well disappear into the wall where he’s staring. I think peter smokes cigarettes. I think maybe nobody is going to amount to anything, especially on this town, and even me-I think I might dissipate or self-combust and it would’t make a bit of difference.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry 

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My Dad’s Lawyer’s Friend’s Daughter’s Name is Muriel

My Dad’s Lawyer’s Friend’s Daughter’s Name is Muriel

She was real fancy, even down to the way she would spread Nutella onto her toast. You know, the way they do it in the commercials. I tried it ,but I think she does it better. Anyhow, she showed up last night at our house because dad’s lawyer friend was over, -I think He’s something of a millionaire-and this girl’s his daughter. I had to ask her if she went to boarding school or something fancy like that, but she just said she went to private school. And then, after dessert, my brother Frank had the nerve to say “aw, why are y’always askin’ her questions like that? Hey, look! Trudy’s got her eye on Muriel!” . And then dad had to shut him up. I don’t know what’s gotten into him teasing me like that, saying I fancy her. Doesn’t he see all the posters I got up in my room of Carry Grant?

Anyway, one time Muriel was in the living room, and the sun was going all over the couch, and she kind of looked like this delicate little angel sitting there just quiet, just thinking, and then I asked her-but I don’t know why, maybe because she was just so pretty- “Muriel, do you have a Boyfriend?”. Then she came back to life suddenly from her thinking pose, and gave me this twisted sort of grin and said “girl’s don’t get a real beux until they graduate from high school” -as If I was supposed to know. Last year I was real sweet on my Fifth grade History teacher, Mister Daniels, but then When I told my friend Beatrice about it, she went on and on about how I was going to get arrested for that, and she got me scared stiff. Well, except for I’m not scared of carry Grant, ’cause he’s just a movie star. Last week I saw him in North by northwest, but I snuck into the theater on account of the rating system or something. But I didn’t get the ending. So then I asked Muriel If she wanted a Boyfriend anyway, and her face got sad all of a sudden. She looked real wistful for a few seconds, just looking out of the window, and then she said “I guess, but my father won’t let me have one”.

I don’t know what I felt then. I guess I felt glad that my father isn’t a millionaire.

Office Workday (written in mid-2011)

 

Mr. Richardson stood from his chair, put the note on the door, strode down the hallway, and descended the old rickety staircase that led to the main offices. Once on the ground floor, he walked to the meeting room where he held gatherings with the staff members once or twice a week, depending on the amount of issues there were to discuss.

He opened the door, and stepped in.

Chapter One

Slowly, Mr. Richardson walked to his chair. Once he was settled, he stared at the cushy chair in front of him, and glanced at his watch. He was 10 minutes early. Noticing his awkward emotions in that still, silent room, he was glad to find all the staff members shuffle in. He nodded and smiled. People finding their seats, a soft murmur. When everyone was in their places, he cleared his throat and spoke. The discussion was about to begin.

Chapter Two

The strange, monotonous day seemed to have doubled it’s length. The hot, un-air conditioned cubicles and desks were in a foul mood, and everyone was sticking to their seats. Even though  fans were brought in from the basement floor, nothing changed. The faint clacking of typewriters could plainly be heard. Everyone was quiet.

Chapter Three

Though most of the staff was quite tired, some decided to bring in cold drinks to the parched mouths of their brethren workers. The offer was greatly appreciated, and soon, everyone was back to chattering about, doing business on the telephone, and typing up important information. In short, the office had been brought back to life. Mr. Richardson kept an eye on everyone from his perch at the top of the banister. Putting on his spectacles, Mr. Richardson heaved a sigh and went back into his office.

x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x   x

Not moments later, a cry broke out from the first floor. Mr. Richardson stepped out and called “Hey! What’s going on?!” Immediately he could see what had happened. Betty, one of the best workers in the office, had spilled a cup of scouring hot coffee on her leg. The burn was huge. It was bleeding on the marble floor, and her friend Anna was caring for the wound with a damp cloth . All eyes turned to Mr. Richardson. He looked embarrassed  Suddenly, he blurted “out! Everybody out! ” Then to Anna he said “I’l call the paramedics, no need to worry-  you’re excused.” “and you, Mrs. Adams,” said Mr. Richardson, looking at Betty harshly “be more careful next time”. The damp cloth was abandoned, and Betty’s blood was seeping through. Mr. Richardson picked up the telephone. Looking away from Betty, he dialed Zero, said a few hushed words, and hung up. Betty was kneeling on the floor, weeping.

They both heard the sirens.

Copyright  2013 Golden Star Poetry