You Are So Brave And Quiet I Forgot You Were Suffering.

“ You are so brave and quiet I forgot you were suffering.”

- Ernest Hemingway, A Farewell to Arms

That scene where Bolin rips off his sleeves hits different

Tales from fiction writing class

Something you remember but you’re not sure why

I don’t know why I remember the light brown mushrooms that would sometimes grow by the flagpole. 

Sometimes, in the early hours of the morning, when I would be a safety patrol at my elementary school, it would be my job to raise the flag outside at the front of the building. The pole was surrounded by a circle of concrete that was surrounded by a circle of yellow and purple marigolds. On the side closest to the building, occasionally, there would be a mushroom that would grow there. 

Somedays, I would walk over it and try not to notice it, giving it only a sideways glance. Then, somedays, I would enjoy stepping on it and feeling my shoe softly squish it down into the dirt. I would never touch it with my hands because it could be poisonous and it would get in my mouth and kill me. 

I stomp it down then wait a month for it to regrow then I stomp it back down. Then the school gardener found out about it constantly regrowing and pulled it out by the roots and I was sad.  

Carpet in the Sand

This is an original poem that I wrote about three years ago, right after I graduated from high school.

Salty air ruffles tents and our clothes Our friends lay in the sand on these late July nights. We chat and smoke and fall in love with the stars All our paths intertwining with one another’s again.

And my mind thinks of you and wishes  that your’s had never separated from mine.

I become drunk on the song of the waves,  imagining your lips muttering “ What a lovely view.”  

A poem I wrote by picking the middle word my phone suggested

Idk why Dumbledore is a man who has been in a relationship for the weekend and I had a lot to talk to you

And you were all the best and the other guy who was the one who had to go out there for 20yrs to get dinner together for the first year

And I wanna be there for you and you can help us with that right here in a minute

Please

Thank yoooo and thank yoooo and hope for a great day to see endgame and the secular nature that is not a great idea

but it doesn't matter how long is there for you and your child and you are a great man threw away a few things you don't want but I have a final question for the next few hours before the game was done

To the play of a connection with a consontr or something that would have made it better to have a final round and the next one was a bit more of the game

I think its ok for me and I had a lot to do something about the team that I was in the game with a team of players who is going through poetry with a concentration camp that has a great reputation

And I had to do something about the world.

Tales from fiction writing class

Write a scene where the characters are talking about an issue without actually stating it.  

We stood outside the bar, my mother and I. It was starting to rain, but she was smoking, so we couldn't go inside yet. I was slowly becoming miserable. 

"Can I go inside?"

"Gimme a minute. I'm almost done."

I didn't speak and she took another drag.

"How'd you start smoking anyway?"

"Your grandma."

Silence and a drag followed.

"Are you done yet?"

"Just wait… Jesus," she answered, angrily.

Silence. Drag.

"I really don't like this… you know," I said.

"What? Me smoking?"

"No."

The rain was still lightning falling. It reminded me of the end of a garden hose. How even when you stand under it, you never feel wet.

My mother finally spoke."Well, I do."

"I can't see why."

She took a last drag and threw the cigarette down without fully putting it out first. "You're too young to understand."

"Or maybe you didn't teach me well enough to understand."

Silence. No drag. "If you don't like it, then don't come next time."

I felt like crying. "If you're unhappy, I understand. But you can stop and do the right thing. We can do something and try to fix it. It's like when you remodeled the kitchen. You…".

She cut me off then. "The problem isn't in the kitchen, it lies in the foundation. Once the foundation's cracked, there isn't much you can do."

I wish I hadn't brought the topic up. "I don't think the foundation is cracked. I love our house. I want to save it."

Before she could say anything, the door to the bar opened. The bartender walked outside and came towards us. "My shift's over. Imma head out."

My mom turned towards him, happily saying, "Are you sure you can't stay?"

I turned away from them. I heard him say, "Yeah, but I'll see you around."

The joy in her voice died. "Around?"

"Yeah. So… bye."

They were quiet for a moment. 

He got into his car and turned on the engine. The radio started blasting some profane rap song. Once he was gone, we looked back at each other and I decided that it was time to head home. I walked to the passenger door of our car. My mother didn't say anything and walked slowly to the driver's door.

We started on the fifteen-minute drive back home still in complete silence. I decided to finally speak. "You know, even if the foundation of our home is cracked, you can't move into one of the fake room sets at IKEA."

She didn't say anything. Perhaps I had gotten to her. We pulled into the driveway and saw that my dad was already here.