Facing Death

The officers met her at the edge of Diana’s gravel driveway. As Kitty walked to meet them, she was glad that she hadn’t cried and made her eyes all red and puffy.

“Anything I can do for you, sir?” she asked the first one as he stepped toward her. Both were heavily muscled and looked to be in their early twenties. For all Kitty knew though, they could have been several hundred years old. There was no way to tell.

“Would you mind coming with us, ma’am?”

Fiddling with her personalized silver bracelet, she followed them with trepidation. “Is there, like, something wrong?”

“No ma’am. We would just like to talk to you a few minutes, that’s all.”

They didn’t clap her in handcuffs, but they made sure to stand firmly on either side of her as she walked down the sidewalk. Pedestrians turned to look at her, so she smoothed the worry creases on her forehead and took long, calm strides, feeling self conscious. Eventually, they made their way to a less populated area of the town. Leading her to a secluded space between two dingy shops, they stopped.

“Do you know how much people are willing to pay the President for a baby?”

“What?” It was not the question she had expected.

The officer ignored her question. “6.5 million dollars. But the population has to stay constant. Do you know where 95% of the lives that are given to new people come from?”

“N-no.” Kitty didn’t understand what the man was driving at. Her boots were hurting her feet. She looked around for somewhere to sit down, but there were only a few trashcans and overturned crates with bits of rotting fruit stuck to them. It suddenly occurred to her that she was in an alley. A dark alley.

“The Government creates new lives by getting rid of old ones. Old ones that are rebellious, threatening, strange, or just… don’t belong here.”

Dark spots sprouted in front of her eyes like black flowers as she started to panic. “But what about the gang victims?”

“The Government is a gang. That makes you…”

The victim.

“No! Please! I-I’m not a rebel, I belong here!”

“Your friend is. That’s close enough. Besides, she’s going to die by herself anyway. You need a little help.”

The first officer drew his gun.

Like a thick, black straw, the barrel of the gun faced Kitty, inches from her face. But she didn’t want to put it in her mouth, nor sip its contents. The very elixir of death that had made her wake up screaming in the night, over and over, had come true.

She turned her face away, remembering the mutilated faces in the newspaper she had always gagged at. Then she started sobbing, because it didn’t matter if her face got mutilated or not, she would still be dead.

“Please.” she cried, “Please no. No. Don’t, please.”

It was all Diana’s fault. If only she hadn’t visited her that morning. If only she had just stayed away from her altogether in the first place. Even though everyone Kitty knew avoided Diana, Kitty had been visiting her for months.

Too late. Kitty heard a volley of shots, and then she sank to her knees. She floated into nothingness, just like she always feared would happen…

Raisinets

“Isaac stuffed too many Raisinets up his nose. I’m driving him to the ER now,” Jake’s wife Olivia said over the phone.

Jake had leaned his office chair backward to reach the phone on his desk. When Olivia spoke, he’d tipped over onto the floor. Not again! He thought.

Jake’s favorite candy was Raisinets, and there was always a box in the cupboard. Jake had thought his three year-old son would be safe from the candy if Jake stashed it somewhere Isaac wouldn’t be able to reach, but apparently not.

“I’ll meet you there,” he answered, picking himself up off the carpet.

There was no question as to whether or not he should leave work. He’d stayed late that day as it was. It was already past the time he should be home. Besides, it was Jake’s fault his son had started the habit, though his wife didn’t know it.

She’d been out that evening, leaving Jake alone with his son. After playing dinosaurs for hours, they’d eaten macaroni and cheese, with ice cream for dessert.

“Why you putting bugs in your ice keam?” Isaac had asked him as Jake sprinkled some Raisinets into his bowl.

“They make it chewier,” Jake replied.

Disgusted, Isaac scrunched his nose. “Where you get dem?”

Jake smiled. “These are special bugs that only comes from one place.” Reaching over, he pretended to pull a Raisinet out of his son’s nose. Then he ate it.

“Dey live in my nose!?”

“Yep, that’s their home.” Jake returned to his ice cream, hardly noticing Isaac watching him eat the “bugs”.

“Maybe they get homesick,” Isaac said in a small voice. Jake didn’t take the comment seriously. He thought it was just one of those things kids said that adults couldn’t understand.

Two weeks later, Jake had to work late. When he finally made it home, after Isaac was asleep, Olivia had the strangest story to tell.

“…and when I came over, the whole box of Raininets was spilled on the table! Then I saw that his nose was stretched weirdly. It took me ten minutes to get them out.”

Jake played the bemused father. “Huh, that’s strange. Maybe it’s one of those phases.”

The next day he’d talked to Isaac, making him promise to stop. But his talk hadn’t worked. As Jake drove to the hospital, he prayed his son would be alright. He also prayed Olivia hadn’t found out who’d given Isaac the bad habit.

When he arrived, Isaac was out of the hospital, and the Raisinets were out of his nose. Swooping up his son, Jake planted a kiss on the top of his head.

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Hey, buddy. What do I hear about you stuffing things up your nose? Didn’t we talk about that?”

“They were bugs, Dad. They wanted to go home. And I thought that if they could go home, you would come home, too.”

Jake couldn’t speak. Instead, he looked into his son’s liquid brown eyes, and then hugged him tightly.

Mark Doty Reading

The first thing that surprised me about the reading was how many people were there. It made my expectations a little higher than they had been for the other two writers that we listened to. I think he met those expectations pretty well. It was amazing how Doty could take some small detail that most other people would overlook and write a stimulating poem about it. The “Lullaloo” poem with the crickets/peepers/ whatever they were poem is an example of this.

It was interesting that he said he couldn’t read his poems from years ago because the rhythm and voice weren’t written the same way he writes today. I thought that once an author finally developed their own voice, it wouldn’t change much over time. But I guess it makes more sense for it to change, because most people themselves change greatly over time because of experiences they’ve had.

My favorite poem was the one about the crashing airplane. There was so much emotion, so much packed dread and anticipation. In that instant, I as a reader knew that Doty thought he was going to die then. Listening to that real experience makes me wonder how I would react if I got the chance to ponder my death before it happened. I also thought it amazing that he worked humor into his near-death-experience. And the strategy worked with the flow of the poem, because that’s the kind of person Doty was.

I liked how he gave a background story to a lot of his poems. The introduction to the poem about the goats was especially interesting. Doty was touched to learn that the kids in the first grade class had read his poem when they weren’t able to go to the goat farm. Stories like that helped me as a listener to delve more deeply into the poems themselves.

Fear Itself

My phone beeped as Kat hung up on me. Well that was rude. And what did she mean by “something terribly wrong”? I started for my car automatically, but then realized I wouldn’t need it. I couldn’t drive to the place, I had to walk. Buttoning my coat, I took a few paces toward the trees at the edge of the property, then turned back and grabbed a crow bar from the trunk of the car. I’d no idea what was going on, so I’d at least try to be prepared.

Probably the only reason I thought of grabbing a weapon was that I’d seen too many movies where people stupidly walk into a suspicious situation empty handed and then end up in the back of a white van with their hands tied. The claw-like branches of the trees in the misty dusk did give my backyard a horror movie-feel to it.

After I located the hiking path, I walked along the smooth dirt while texting my parents. I told them I was going for a walk and I might not be back by the time they got home. I texted my brother Justin, too, saying if I wasn’t back around ten-ish to look for me at the Forsythia Fort. He was the only one in the family who knew where that was.

After seeing my breath puff out in little clouds and mix with the damp mist for a few minutes, I started to jog. No one was around to question a teenager in a puffy coat running around with a crowbar, and it was cold, so why not? I had about a mile to go to reach the place. As it got darker and the house lights faded, I realized what an idiot I was for not thinking to bring a flashlight. Then I thought maybe that wasn’t so bad, as it would be harder on someone if they were following me.

I halted, listening for any footsteps that would alert me if I was being tailed. There were none, obviously. I was taking this situation way more seriously than it should be taken. Kat and Jenna weren’t drug addicts, they didn’t get drunk, they didn’t have any creepy friends that I knew about, and their parents weren’t abusive. They weren’t normal – Kat had an unnatural obsession for chocolate tootsie roll pops, and Jenna was always swinging her foot in rhythm as if she wanted to dance to her own life’s soundtrack – but those weren’t exactly criminal tendencies. The only thing we ever did that was against the law was say that we were under thirteen when buying movie tickets. They were cheaper that way. And we couldn’t even do that anymore, because we looked too old.

I walked on, trying not to trip on tufts of half-dead grass, protruding rocks, or tree roots that became more frequent the deeper into the trees I went. It was too dark to run anymore, as I neared the hideout, the Forsythia Fort, and I wanted to be quiet. Giving my position away too early could be disastrous. There was no telling who might be keeping watch.

I could just make out a dark blob up ahead where the Forsythia bushes and tree trunks made a thick ring. In the center was where we would always meet when we were little. We would pretend we were runaway orphans, using grass seed and berries mixed together as “bread”. Water with flower petals in a cracked earthen jar was “soup”, and our beds were piles of dried pine needles. That was before we got to be boring teenagers. Once we reached middle school, the only thing we did was sit and talk.

I reached the edge of the bushes, peering into the branches that were still covered with wilted leaves. I couldn’t detect any sound or light coming from inside. I stood still, keeping my breathing quiet while considering my options. I could a) venture inside, making lots of noise and putting myself into a vulnerable position. b) call out, revealing my presence to possible threats. c) try to find a tree to climb and look down into the space. Maybe I would see something better that way. Or I could d) stand there debating all night and freeze to death. I chose e) Scream like a tortured soul in Hell because something wet just touched my hand.

“AAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!”

If I’d had to use the bathroom, I would have done it right then. My crowbar whipped around as I spun, but it hit only air.

“Chrissy? Is that you?” Jenna called, from inside the bushes. She sounded more squeaky than usual.

“What are you screaming about? You scared me to death.” From the husky tone of her voice, I could tell Kat had been crying. “I already have enough to be scared about as it is. Get in here so we can talk.”

I about melted into a puddle of relief as I heard the twins and saw the vague outline of Jen’s French poodle Flufflepuff wagging her tail next to me. When the dog licked my hand again, I pet her on the head instead of trying to brain her.

As I struggled through the clinging branches of the bush, the relief was ripped away, replaced by a growing resentment and suspicion.

“Okay,” I said once I reached the clearing. “What was so important that you had to make me come out here in the dark and freezing cold to hear it?”

I looked back and forth between the two almost-identical figures huddled together on the ground. Neither was wearing a coat. At first I couldn’t tell who was who, but then I made out Jenna’s slippered foot twitching in the air. It moved faster than usual.

Jenna looked at Kat, who sat very still, hugging her knees.

“What happened was - ” Kat began, but her voice broke. She tried again. “I mean, I was kind of – Well, it was an - ” Burying her face in her arms, she started to sob. “You tell her! I c-can’t get it out.”

I started to roll my tongue around my mouth, a habit I had when I got nervous. Kat was always saying something. It was usually getting her to shut up that was the problem. Too much sugar from those tootsie roll pops, probably.

Her sister took a deep breath. “What she’s trying to say is, sheaccidentallyburntthehousedownwhenshetriedtotoastabagel.”

“The stupid fire extinguisher wouldn’t work,” Kat mumbled through her sweater. “Now it’s gone…all gone…”

“Mom and Dad went away for the weekend,” Jenna added. Her foot bounced higher than ever. “I don’t think they know yet.”

I looked at the two shivering, frazzled girls on the ground in front of me. Then I looked at my hand, which still gripped my weapon. A laugh escaped me before I could swallow it back.

“What part of that is funny to you?” Kat demanded.

“Nothing! I’m sorry, it’s just that I was expecting – never mind.” I was just a 21^st century girl with an overdose of imagination.

Sombrero

Sequins reflect the sun, throwing fairy lights around the room

Pristine showy whiteness

Arched brim, like a cat stretching to show off

Glinting silver stitching

Round as the full moon

It almost swallows my head when I put it on, because it’s so large.

When I touch it, it feels fuzzy, like moss.

It hangs over my bed as a reminder of Mexico.

Wearing it expresses my crazy side that isn’t often apparent.

Smudges of dirt are easy to see, but equally easy to rub off.

I don’t want to write a poem right now

I don’t want to write a poem right now

my brain is half asleep

and eyelids are taking their final bow…

Suddenly, my alarm goes BEEP

My brain is half asleep

though the sun is shining bright.

Suddenly, my alarm goes BEEP

Oh no! There’s still that poem to write.

Though the sun is shining bright

I have no concentration.

Oh no! There’s still that poem to write.

I need some inspiration.

I have no concentration

What should I write about?

I need some inspiration.

Writer’s block makes me want to shout!

What should I write about?

I give up. It’s no use.

Writer’s block makes me want to shout!

I’ll give my teacher a good excuse.

I give up. It’s no use.

Can’t think of what to say.

I’ll give my teacher a good excuse.

Oh well, it’s the only way.

Can’t think of what to say

to explain my situation

Oh well, it’s the only way,

I’ll write an explanation.

To explain my situation,

I’ll do the only thing I can.

I’ll write an explanation,

to make her understand.

I’ll do the only think I can

without making myself look silly,

to make her understand

that I did try, really.

Dear teacher,

I wish I could explain myself better,

but I hope you won’t take away a whole grade letter.

I chose the Pantoum form because the repetition and rhyme worked well with my theme. Even though the Pantoum doesn’t need to rhyme, mine does, because things like that seem to make a lot of poems lighter, and I wanted this to be a light, understandable poem that didn’t boggle people’s minds or frustrate them with abstractedness. Those types of poems are sometimes fun to write too, especially if I’m trying to gain an understanding of something complex, but that wasn’t what I wanted to do here. It would be hard to tell a story in chronological order in this form because of all the repeating lines, so that wasn’t my goal either. I had one main theme, so the lines I used could be flexible and put into different contexts as the poem moved from one stanza to the next. It was surprisingly difficult to find lines that could be taken out of context and put into a different one. By using this form, I hoped to convey the humorous side of the poem and make people smile, not delve into the depths of critical thinking. I also think poems that repeat and rhyme are often more memorable and less boring. The only rule I broke was putting the stanza that begins with “Dear teacher” at the very end of the poem. Strictly speaking, that doesn’t follow the correct form of the Pantoum. I did that just to emphasize that the poem was no longer me talking to myself, but me talking to someone else. It was meant to be sort of like a post script at the end of a letter.

Hope

Hope is the Thing with Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

~Emily Dickinson (1861)

Phoenix Hope

Swirls of heat top feathery flame

of free flying bird never tamed.

Always there yet out of my reach,

because pain and patience you teach.

Wordless, tuneless song wakes the morn

And my trust in you is reborn.

Scattering sparks like sowing seeds

in the earth for those in need.

Soaring high as the wind unfolds,

yet you’re the only thing I hold.

Falling, searing, gasp of dying

desolation in me crying.

But up from your ashes you rise

to show that Hope never dies.

David Gessner Review

I’m interested in environmental issues, so I looked forward to hearing what Gessner had to say on his subject. Many environmentalists take a very serious approach, almost like they’re pleading to their audience to act out and change the world. But Gessner was humorous and had a fresh perspective on what an environmentalist actually was. Instead of asking us to transform into tree-huggers, he said that what was needed was “more hypocrites”. He admitted that no one in the world is a pure environmentalist. In other words, no one can claim to have zero energy waste or carbon footprint. But that shouldn’t stop people from trying to make a difference.

I also like how he said that the first step for everyone was to start with a small project, and the momentum that we gathered might carry us forward into something that had a larger influence. Asking people to jump up and change the world right away is daunting, and no one would know where to start.

He didn’t threaten anyone with the doom of the world, which has become the traditional approach lately. From a writing perspective, threats of “we’re all gonna die” don’t incite most people to action, they just discourage them. I liked his analogy of a spouse constantly saying “this marriage is all over! It’s hopeless!”

His comparison of humans to gannets made sense to me. No one can blame humans for wanting the best quality of life they can get. It’s our nature. The only problems arise when the resources we use to obtain that quality of life run out. I really liked the way he explained that. He wasn’t putting the blame on the squandering ways of humans for the environmental issues than need to be dealt with, he was just saying that what happened happened, and we will have to adapt. Because we are adaptable humans, we can do it, and we have a responsibility to do it.

I thought the intro to his book trailer was great. It wasn’t what I was expecting, and it made me laugh. He claimed that “he wasn’t normal”, but I think that’s a good thing. I don’t want to listen to normal people talk about normal things in a normal way. You have to have a healthy dose of weirdness and originality to interest people and get them to pay attention to what you want to say, and I think he had that.

One Destiny

In the future I see

dejavu.

A paradox of times,

not one true.

Monotony that is

always new.

The past is the future’s

melody,

they spiral together

crazily

Through the vortex only

One can see.

Still searching for the one

path to keep.

There it is take a chance,

skydive leap.

Forever comes and I

fall asleep.

Changing my "Now"

During the workshop this morning, I was told I had two different "Now"s in my narrative. I decided to write the last few paragraphs of the piece both ways to see which "Now" would work better.

Now #1

I want to go out of state for college to have an adventure. But after I’m there, I’ll probably see that life with you and the rest of our family was just as exciting. What would it be like, if you visit me at Penn State sometime? How will I have to save you? Will I scale the roof of Old Main? Jump in front of a moving bicycle? Hurtle over four foot bushes? Dive down an open manhole? Just the thought of all the possibilities thrill me.

This one was a lot shorter, because this was the only paragraph that directly contradicted my other "Now".

Now #2

Eight years later, you were still alive, and it was almost time for me to leave. I wanted to leave, I was so ready to leave, but at the same time I knew what I was leaving behind. Even so, I had no regrets. I tried to be the best sister I could in those short years, and I knew you’d forgive me for not being around for the rest of them.

Your blonde curls had darkened and grew in waves down your back. I wouldn’t have been able to put them into a fountain ponytail if I tried, and anyway you would never have let me. You no longer needed a 24 hour body guard to protect you from yourself, so I knew you’d be fine when I was gone.

It was your turn on the soccer field, running around on tiptoe with your jersey hanging down almost to your knees. Six goals in one game? That’s my girl.

Your favorite things to ask me were “Do you need help?” and “What should I do now?” Being the youngest meant you didn’t always have a playmate, since everyone was so busy most of the time.

“Tell me the stories about how you saved me when I was little,” you asked sometimes. When I did, you laughed. We both did.

I was amazed when I saw you dancing and singing along to popular songs like that was what you were born to do. You did actual moves that make sense, as opposed to a lot of people (including me) that just shuffled around and jerked their limbs as if they were on the verge of a seizure.

In the evenings, I watched you kiss your stuffed animals goodnight and arrange them on your bed so they were comfortable. You saw me watching and smiled bashfully. I looked away so you could finish.

Even though I knew there was no danger of you hurting yourself, I still worried about what would happen to you when I wasn’t there. I had to remind you to eat breakfast three times before you consented and nibbled a piece of fruit. Things like eating just didn’t occur to you, unless it involved treats or dessert.

“Bye, Coriana.”

“Bye, Chloella. I love you.” I don’t know why I called you that sometimes instead of “Chloelle”. Your name just seemed to flow out of my mouth like that. I bent down to give you a hug, and you were still small. But I still had to go.

“I love you too.”

But would you still after months pass and I haven’t come home? I couldn’t protect you, should you need protection. When you woke up coughing with sickness, I wouldn’t be there with a cup of water. If you fell off your bike, skinning your hands and knees, Connor would have to be the one to carry you home.

I wanted to go out of state for college to have an adventure. But now that I’m here, I see that life with you and the rest of our family was just as exciting. What would it be like, if you were with me at Penn State right now? How would I have to save you? Would I be scaling the roof Old Main? Jumping in front of a moving bicycle? Hurtling over four foot bushes? Diving down an open manhole? Just the thought of all the possibilities thrill me.

Somehow, I wonder if I’m the one who needs you to need me. You can do perfectly well on your own now, I’m sure. And that’s what scares me. If I don’t have to be around you, will you still want me there? If you don’t feel my absence when I’m gone, will it be easy for you to overlook me when I’m home? They say long distance relationships never last, but no one ever said anything about sisterships. I can only hope those are different.

I had to change a lot more, but I'm leaning toward this one.

Of Insomnia

I think people tell me to count sheep to fall asleep because sheep are the most boring characters out there. I shouldn’t be able to help but snooze if I’m forced to watch them jumping over a fence over and over. But in my mind, the sheep don’t just jump like they’re supposed to. The first one does a front flip, the next a triple axel. From then on, the moves get more complicated, as do the costumes adorning the sheep. There’s one that’s fond of pole vaulting. Biker-sheep revs the engine of its Harley, then drives up a ramp and soars over, black leather jacket flapping in the wind. The next sheep, adorned in swim trunks, surfs over as a wave engulfs the fence.

The sheep in the back are impatient. Running up to the front, they try to steal a spot closer in line, but there is no line anymore, it’s just a mob.

“Hey! Get baaa-a-a-a-a-k to your spot!” One sheep complains.

“You can’t pull the wool over my eyes!” another one asserts.

One tough looking ewe with an eye patch pulls a bazooka out of her wool. Another sheep, all in black, unsheathes a machete. Ninja stars fly. Flame throwers torch. Someone activates a wolf-launcher, and everything goes haywire.

Ah! Insomnia! It turns my mind into a leaf blower, droning on and on at a steady buzz. Never resting. Thoughts pinwheel through, twisting together like the colors on a candy cane. Sheep blow each other up with hand grenades as I try to remember what the highest occupied molecular orbital of acetate is for chemistry. Under the Capitol’s orders, peacekeepers abduct a litter of kittens. I have to drive on a road with more windy turns than an overcooked noodle. The road turns out to be a river with a waterfall at the end.

I try to concentrate on nothing and let my mind go blank, but since nothing in essence is something, it doesn’t help. My limbs don’t really exist, I tell myself. But my foot itches, so they do. I listen to my own even breathing, but the breaths turn into seashore waves that wash me into the ocean and drown me beneath the crushing pressure of colorful coral reef thoughts.

Is there no solution? Must I lie on this bed until the shadows shift into the fuzzy light of early morning and the dawn claims me? Then I’d have to drag myself to my 8:00 class as if I were the ghost of Christmas past, moaning and wrapped in chains.

I had several options. I could do nothing, letting my thoughts spin like a cotton candy maker until the candy ran out and I fell asleep. I could get up and do some productive studying. Or I could chug some Nyquil. One thing was for sure. Never again would I drink coffee an hour before I went to bed.

Reflecting on the Tayari Jones Reading

The way Tayari Jones gave inflection to her reading made the story come alive. I could picture everything happening as plausible. Though I couldn’t relate much to any of her characters, I didn’t mind much because they were interesting to hear about. After she’d finished reading, I found myself wondering what happened next.

I liked how she said that it didn’t matter what your writing process was. If you ended up with a book at the end, then than was the way to do it. She admitted that she usually deletes two thirds of what she wrote in order to come up with the right story, which is encouraging to me. Sometimes I feel that if I have to spend too much time with a piece, and the words don’t flow from the pencil like magic, I’m doing something wrong, or the story isn’t any good and I should just delete the whole thing and start again with something fresh. But sometimes that’s just the way it works.

Even though the book is fiction, she included things that happened in her own life, like putting paper between her teeth, or her father giving her mother a carving knife for their anniversary. I’ve often wondered how writers come up with quirky details like those to make the characters seem more real. When I read fiction, I tend to think that everything is made up.

I’m glad she mentioned how reading aloud helps her edit dialogue. I admit it – I hate reading my writing out loud. Especially formal essays. I can see how it would help, though. It’s much easier to tell if my writing is stuffy, corny, or nonsensical if I listen to it. That’s probably why I hate doing it. The stupidity that jumps out is so obvious that I despair of ever turning it into something worthwhile. If I want to improve, though, I should probably start proof-reading out loud.

The Fitz family was proud to say they were NOT perfectly normal, thank you very much.

“She needs to sort out her priorities,” my brother Connor said. “Okay, who said that, who to, what movie?”

Without skipping a beat, I said, “Ron Weasley, to Harry Potter, in the Sorcerer’s Stone.” That one was easy. Now it was my turn. “I can mend bones in a heartbeat, but growing them back - !”

“Madame Pomphrey, to Harry Potter, in the Chamber of Secrets.” He paused a second to gather his thoughts. “And they say I’m mad!”

“Mad-eye Moody, to Barty Crouch, in the Goblet of Fire,” my little sister Carmalyn interjected. Then she said, “I knew I could do it, because, well, I’d already done it!”

“Harry Potter, to Hermoine Granger, in the Prisoner of Azkaban.”

The three of us could do this all day. They didn’t have to be long quotes, either. “Only one”, “We’ve heard”, “Absolutely spiffing!”, “Always”.

“Mermaid, to Harry Potter, in the Goblet of Fire.”

“Hagrid, to Bane the centaur, in the Sorcerer’s Stone.”

“Fred Weasley, to Harry Potter, in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“Severus Snape, to Dumbledore, in the Deathly Hallows.”

“Part one or part two?”

“Part two.”

Both movie and book quotes were fair game. Since all of us had read the seven book series at least three times, it was only fair. Besides, so much good stuff had been taken out of the movies! JK Rowling deserved credit as an author.

As for the movies themselves, we’d watched all of them except for the Deathly Hallows ones innumerable times. But I’d been thrilled when I got the DVDs for Part one and two of the last movie for Christmas. Finally, the collection was complete, and we could start watching the last two again and again! So many quotes to mine…

“He’s covered in blood. Why is he always covered in blood?”

“Ginny Weasley, to Ron and Hermione, in the Half Blood Prince.”

“I’ll tell my father about this!”

“Draco Malfoy, to Harry Potter, in the Prisoner of Azkaban.”

“Nice one, James!”

“Sirius Black, to Harry Potter, in the Order of the Phoenix.”

The books spanned our childhood. We’d grown up pointing sticks at each other and shouting at least two dozen memorized spells while playing in the backyard. After copying the Hogwarts school supply list from the Sorcerer’s Stone book, we pillaged the house for books on herbs, stuffed animal owls, and huge pots we dubbed “cauldrons”, pretending we were about to become first year students. The marbles in our colorful collections were named after Harry Potter characters.

“Fifty points if it goes through her HEAD!”

“Moaning Myrtle, to Harry and Ron, in the Chamber of Secrets.”

“It unscrews the other way.”

“Professor McGonagall, to Peeves, in the Order of the Phoenix.”

Even though we were all very disappointed when our letter from Hogwarts didn’t come on our eleventh birthday, we knew reality from fantasy by then and contented ourselves with our imaginings.

“Oi! There’s a war going on here!”

“Harry Potter, to Ron and Hermione, in the Deathly Hallows.”

“Part one or two?”

“Neither. That’s from the book.”

“Can you… hear me?”

“Harry Potter, to a boa constrictor, in the Sorcerer’s Stone.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.”

“The first sentence in the Sorcerer’s Stone.” Even if it wasn’t dialogue, we could still play the game just as well.

It’s just what we do. It’s something we all agree on. Being siblings, things like that are sometimes hard to come by. I hope the magic of the books never wanes and we never grow too old to see it.

“Of course it is happening inside your head, Harry, but why on earth does that mean it is not real?”

Wilson: Dog, not Volleyball

Wilson is seventy two. In dog years, that is. In people years, he’s eight. At his age, he should be languishing by the fireside on a nice, soft pillow while eating dog biscuits. But fate hasn’t favored him. For as long as can remember, Wilson hasn’t known a caring family, warm bed, or easy-to-come-by food.

Instead, chill morning mists dampen his shabby reddish gold coat as he limps toward the docks. His fur would be beautiful if brushed, but there is no one to brush it. He limps because his nails have grown so long that they are underneath his paws, digging painfully into his pads with every step. Sniffing the air, he swings his head so his one good eye can see the fishing boat before him.

There are scraps on the boat, left over from the fishing expedition the day before. Not much, but enough to tempt a half starved stray dog. Without hesitation, Wilson scrabbles into the boat and laps up every tidbit he can find.

He doesn’t even realize the fishermen are coming back until too late. While the men cast off, he has no choice but to hide in the shadows. As he watches the land dwindle until his eye can hardly see it anymore, he lets out an involuntary whine.

“Mangy mutt! Trying to steal my work, eh?” One of the men abruptly turns to him, scooping him up by the scruff and tossing him out of the boat as if he’s had to do the same thing countless times before. To the fisherman, he is simply garbage, a waste of space. Worse, because he would eat the man’s fish if given the chance.

Wilson’s paws flail as he soars through the air, and then start paddling to the surface furiously as he hits the water with a splash. Salty water sloshes up his nose and stings his good eye – his poor eye is ablaze with fiery pain. Though he tries to dog-paddle after the boat, it has sails to aid its escape, and soon he can no longer see it among the bobbing waves.

But which way should he go now? There is no land anywhere, and his long furry coat and ears are weighing him down in the water. It’s all he can do to keep his nose afloat, and sometimes he goes under, breathing in more water and almost choking.

He has two choices: give up to the vast expanse of churning water that’s just waiting for its chance to swallow him up, or keep paddling. It would be easier for him to let the tugging waves have him, let himself be taken away from the world that has no use for him, but his will is strong. He keeps swimming, despite the ever persistent water around him.

There is nowhere to go, but he goes. There is nothing to live for, but he lives. For two days, stranded in the middle of the sea, he survives. When rescuers find him and bring him to shore, he slips into a week long slumber.

Because of his multitude of medical issues and all the salt water in his ears in stomach, no one thinks he will survive. Again, he proves the world wrong. He lives to be taken to Whitecourt Homeless Animal Rescue Foundation(WHARF). There, Janet Talbott falls in love with him when his story breaks her heart in two.

After adopting him, she whispers in his ear, “You will have the life every day that every animal deserves.” Kissing the top of his now glossy head, she adds, “You will receive love on a daily basis.”

http://news.discovery.com/animals/mexico-stray-dogs-121301.html

http://www.edmontonjournal.com/life/pets/Edmonton+lover+gives+Wilson+life+deserves+last/5967215/story.html

Just Another White T-shirt

Climbing over the side railing, I jumped to the steps and started booking it upward. The rest of my half of the soccer team chugged behind me, worn out from the last hour and a half of the across-town scavenger hunt. Our nemesis – the other half of the soccer team – struggled up the stairs in front of us.

After sixty two stairs, I had to stop and catch my breath. Putting my hands over my head, I looked up at the sky while slowly walking up more stairs. The beaming sun leached the sweat from my skin, not helping me regain any energy.

Before we even knew about the hunt, it was exciting. The coach had kept it a secret until the day of, only saying that she had something “special” planned. Then she’d smiled deviously.

That day, less people showed up for practice than usual. But still, our coach split us up into two teams, handed out the paper with the scavenger hunt items on it, and explained the rules. The most important rule was that we couldn’t split up to gather the things we needed. We’d be safer that way, plus we’d get more exercise.

To ramp up the competition, our coach noted in passing that there was a prize involved for the team that got the most correct answers the fastest. True to her nature, she wouldn’t tell us what the prize was no matter how much we pestered her, only saying that she had to order it online and it was going to be expensive for her. Then she let us loose in Morgantown.

The two teams headed different ways, not wanting to make each other feel like they were cheating of their rival’s answers. Once we were a good distance away, my team skimmed over the list. Then we headed off to find out what year the coliseum was built, acquire a pen, and get two signatures from employees at a Mexican restaurant.

After about halfway through the second part of the list, we realized that we’d forgotten the pen, so I ran downstairs in the building we were in to ask the administrator there if I could borrow one. She refused. I considered just grabbing the unopened ten-pack of pens lying on the counter, but then decided against it. I found one elsewhere.

After running up and down hills, dodging pedestrians, and bothering people with questions about what year Colonel Sanders founded KFC (before thinking it through, we also asked what state KFC was founded in) we headed toward the last challenge: counting the steps on the staircase to Law Hill.

“A hundred and twenty eight!” my teammate gasped as she made it to the top. “That’s what I got. Anyone get something different?”

The rest of us shook our heads, so she scribbled down the number on a wrinkled and slightly damp answer sheet. While the coach tallied the results, the team lounged around at the top of the stairs, drinking water like addicts.

The half of the team I was on ended up winning, but it wasn’t until months later, right before the championship game of the very last tournament of the season, that we got our prize.

You can say that they were just a bunch of white t-shirts, but to us it was more than that, because they had a meaning only we knew about. On the front in gold and blue lettering were the words “West Virginia United Soccer Club”, and on the back was a quote. “It is the team, not the individual, who is the ultimate champion.” Which meant, of course, that our whole team got them, not just the half that won the scavenger hunt. Nobody minded, because it felt right that way.

With Mia Hamm’s words in our minds, we went out and played our last game together, as a team.