Friday, 13 June 2014

Un-named Short Story

This story was part a dossier(anthology) of poems and such that I did for school. I had no idea where this story was headed, but just wrote what I felt like, and this was what came out--best way to break  writer's block.
Oh, and, as you can see, this story has no name; if you think of something, put t in the comments below, please and thank you.
 
Short Story (without a name)
Unedited and unrevised version

    I never saw it coming. No one did.

    I mean, we always knew she was mental and crazy, but she’s been pretty normal lately, docile, and nobody wanted to break the peacefulness that settled over the house. We never suspected a thing. And it cost us.

    I just came back from our worst game ever—we lost by a land slide to the Kanyon High Cougars—and was surprised and relived that my brothers weren’t waiting at school to tease me about it. I headed home, taking the long way, all the while dreading what kind of humiliation they had planned for me for losing the game. Now that I look back, I would have done anything to have stayed in that moment, where I worried only about trivial things.

    I arrived home half an hour or fifthteen minutes before sun down, and sensed something strange. You know that sixth sense that warns you when something bad was about to happen? Yeah, that’s what I felt, and ignored.

    I walked up the porch steps of the white and blue Victorian style house—built 2005—and found the door to be locked. I knocked, no one answered. This was nothing new or weird because my brothers and I did it all the time to her. Guess I was due for a little pay back. And our parents were out of town for the week, so we wouldn’t get in trouble.

    “Hey, open up!” I yelled as I knocked again. I had given up and was prepared to knock the door down or spend the night outside when I heard the click. I grabbed the knob before someone could lock it again and went in.

    The smell was the first thing that greeted me. It was coppery and musty. I could never have guessed what it was then.

    Then she appeared from behind the door.

    “Hello, big brother,” my nine-year-old little sister said to me. Her small, timid voice betraying nothing of what I later learned had occurred.

    I had not closed the door, and the setting sun could still be seen; that might have been what saved me. She raised the knife, sunlight bouncing off of it, in a ready-to-strike position. “Let’s play a game,” she took a step forward. Her voice was no longer timid. Instead, it was now louder, an octave higher and showing the signs of her schizophrenia. “The others didn’t want to play with me.”

    What happened next was nowhere near heroic. Not at all. I was simply not raised that way, and neither was she.

I turned and ran. I did not need to stay; I already knew where they were and what happened to them—to her otherbig brothers. I had the visuals in my head; I did not need nor want to see it with my own eyes. I ran through the neighbourhood, not making any sounds. I was scared—okay, frightened—and nonplussed. I was always this way, a ‘fraidy-cat. Coward. Though my public persona never showed it, and the mask eventually stuck and I pretended to be this hero who loved his sister. It was all fake.

    I wasn’t sure what happened next. The sky grew dark. I couldn’t see, then, I felt pain and collapsed to the ground. Then I felt nothing, either.

                                              . . . . .

One week later

I hit a lamp post and passed out. How lame is that? I bumped into a lamp post and passed out. Told you I was no hero, and the evidences were right in front of me. The three coffins, one of them kid size, being lowered to the ground could attest to that.         

But what did I do? I pretended.         

I let some tears fall. I kept quiet. And I said the eulogy that I did not write. They fell for it, ate it all up. This is the mask that I would hide behind for the rest of my life—and I was vain enough that I was okay with that.

Hiding behind a mask.

 

Sunday, 8 June 2014

Looking for Alex




By: Marion Dillon


First off, I was given a temporary copy for viewing from NetGalley(thank you!), and because I had only a few more hours before it expired, I had to skim and skip a lot.
On May 13, 2013, Dan--who was a little boy the last time Beth saw him--conveniently showed up to see if the name he saw matched the person from his memory. It did, and his visit brought Beth's memories of the summer of 1977 back to the surface--memories of a one-sided friendship, rebellion and punk, loves and losses.
The book alternated between flashbacks and the present.
A little summary:
In 1977, Beth best friend, Alex, ran away. Beth got a phone call from Alex, and followed her to London to bring her home. The Alex that greeted her was not the girl she knew anymore.
Alex refused to come home, stating that her father hit her and her mother never did anything about it. For the duration of the summer, Beth and Alex lived with strangers, until Alex ran away again, and Beth's parents showed up.
In the end, she--I think--with the help of Fitz, tracked down Alex and adult Beth and a different Alex talked things over, forgiving the already forgiven.
The adult Beth saw that Alex's reasons were weak, while younger Beth couldn't see that Alex didn't just ran away, she disappeared(and let's just say that she was really good at it, too). How well do we know our friends, now, compared to the past or future, was the thought it provoked. And, like the cover said, there are 2 sides to every betrayal.

LET'S TALK ABOUT FITZ: music nerd, loyal, pretty decent cook, and had an Irish accent. Gush!

Was Looking for Alex, good? Did I enjoy it? Yes, it was overall a 'good' book. I liked it at some parts, but I couldn't get through it all. I could only give this book a 3, though I might have enjoyed it more without the deadline a few hours away--damn myself for not reading this sooner! But, yes, this was an interesting book--especially Celia, with her jungle room.

Tuesday, 3 June 2014

Double Dare

We were given partners and had to write a short story that is about self-discovery or  responsibility. While my partners wrote the majority voted story, I could not stop myself from writing this story that bloomed in my head a week ago in Health class, where we were recommended to try this thing called abstinence.
I apologize for any grammar or spelling mistakes since I just finished writing this ten minutes ago and had yet to go over it with a fine-tooth comb.
And to my ELA teacher: I know some of the words in here are inappropriate for school but the only rule you set was that it had to be of grade 8 level; I did not break any rules.

Ladies and gentlemen, here it is:  
Double Dare
                            A SHORT STORY BY SUNNY YANG
 

            Jenna Follisco is a slut. Really, just ask anybody, and they would all agree with me. Everyone in the cafeteria saw ‘it’ when she tripped and ‘it’ fell out of her backpack—and, honestly, who would lug a backpack around, and it was not even designer.

            Most of the tables fell silent when they heard the rattling sound of pills due to the fact that we all went through Nurse Anne’s health class in junior high. Felicity, my bestie, got up and walked over to Jenna, who was on the floor, dazed and tense from tripping over Brandon’s sudden outstretched leg—such a klutz—and picked up the bottle that fell out of the brown girl’s backpack.

            She examined the bottle, and, with a look of disgust, dropped it on Jenna’s head.

            “You’ll need that, slut,” she turned on her heels—“And don’t get yourself pregnant, you know pills only work 90 percent of the time”—and walked away.

            See? The evidence was right there! Jenna is on the pill, and, therefore, having sex at the ripe old age of 14. And, by the end of the day, everyone knew her for what she was; a slut, and soon-to-be prostitute—there was no denying where she was headed in life.

                                                                            . . .                                                                           

            That night, we were at Delilah’s house for a little get-together, and it was y turn.

            “Dare,” I chose, and gave everyone a look that dared them to think up something good. Only Felicity spoke.

            “I dare you to befriend the harlot,” she deadpanned.

            I bent on knee and rested my chin on it, “Go on.”

            “I want the inside scoop,” something gleamed in her eyes. “In three hours, rumors, if we add all the names, managed to say that she slept with nearly half the freshmen-male population, and a few lesbian—but I want the exact number.” Now, I recognized the gleam in her eyes as malice.

            I accepted the dare because I’m a dare kinda girl.

. . .

            Eleven days later, Wednesday, the harlot showed her face, again.

            “Look at her,” Felicity snorted. “Acting all high and mighty when there is nothing to be proud of.”

            Jenna was walking down the hall with her head held high, face expressionless, and medusa eyes that made all who looked flinch and turn away with guilt. She had quite a backbone for a lower-classman.

            The loud whisper resumed when Jenna turned a corner, and I do mean loud.

            Brandon, my twin, stared at the corner where Jenna turned into with remorse. He was the one who tripped her, and he had done it on purpose, then, and now regrets it dearly—he told me so last night after dinner, about the way his buddies mocked the Follisco name and how he wanted to speak up, to defend with violence, but didn’t.

            I felt no guilt. Unlike all the nimrods now rushing to class, I told no lie—I had evidence, they didn’t.

. . .

            I gritted my teeth. Here I was, a senior, sacrificing my time to talk to the school slut, and not even a thank you. I was a dare kind of girl, so I accepted the dare and here I was, trying to befriend this ungrateful inferior.

            “I just want to help,” god, I sound like a kids show.

             “You’re Felicity’s friend,” she insinuated.

            Felicity’s friend? Was that all I am? Why she…I was the class president three years in-a-row in junior high, captain of both the math and soccer team and lead us to nationals. I was not some dumb blonde who followed Felicity, the cheer captain, around like a puppy. And besides, my hair was red, not blond.

            I grounded my teeth together, the sound loud and obvious outside on the empty school lawn. Again, I said something ridiculous and could only be found in children television shows; “I wanna be your friend.” Felicity so owed me for this.

            The insufferable thing leaned back into the tree behind her, crossed her ankles and placed her hands behind her head. My blood boiled seeing her be so confident when she has no right to. “If you’re wondering if the rumors are true, the answer is no; I’ve slept with more than half the freshmen population. As for everything else, yes, they’re are all true.

            “Now that you have completed your dare, you can run along back to your mistress.”

            I lost it. “No one owns me, you spoiled brat!”

            She smirked, “Look who’s talking.”

            I was angry at her—and me. She remained calm and collected while I reined in my temper. When at last I did, I said “You a dare kind of girl?”

            “Takes one to know one,” she said, the smirk gone.

            I took a deep breath and sat down, took a pear out of my book bag, and bit into it. We stayed silent, residual anger still seeping out of me while she was all cool and calm―she’s worse than Felicity. But it wasn’t every day I met a fellow dare-girl, so I wasted my lunch hour outside with bugs again the next day, debating the topic of the apocalypse with a harlot, and it continued like this for while. She stopped insinuate that I was Felicity’s lap dog, and I, in turn, did not embarrass us both with dialogues that belong in early childhood and children’s television.

            I completed only half of the dare, I kept telling myself. And I am only working on the other half, not, in actuality, befriending the harlot. But I found myself enjoying Jenna’s company and always looking forward to talking about random subjects and conspiracies that Felicity always brushed off as too ‘childish’ and a ‘waste of time.’

. . .

Three months later, Felicity confronted me. I had been dreading this moment, and was surprised she didn’t do it earlier; I just wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.

She came to my house on a Sunday in December. I saw her coming from my bedroom window, answered the doorbell before it rang, and, all in one breath, said “Felicity, hi! Sorry we haven’t chat lately, but, um, I still haven’t broached the subject of the pills, yet. But the numbers turned out to be higher than―”

“Is the harlot pregnant?” She asked matter a factly.

My expression must have been answer enough, because she pushed past me and walked in―without taking her shoes off. “Take off your shoes,” I yelled after her, and she stopped in her tracks, and did as my mother had always told her to the few times she had come over.

I sat at my desk, and she on a bean bag chair in the corner of the room, talking. While I had the flu and stayed home, so did Jenna. But rumors, being rumors, had the crazy idea that

Jenna was knocked up and was not at school because she had an abortion or miscarriage and lost lots of blood―which was ridiculous and absurd on its own. And I could not believe that Felicity would fall for the idiocy of it. Where was the evidence?

            When I pointed this out to her, she countered with a “That’s what I want you to find out,” then got up and left.

. . .

Though I still believed Jenna was not a virgin, I no longer saw her as a slut or harlot, and her future seemed to hold more than prostitution. But I still felt the need to see for myself what was going on with her. She had been acting a bit skittish for the past 2 weeks, very un-Jenna; no longer the cool cat, but the frightened mouse.

I called her cell phone, but no one answered. I tried again; still no one answered. I called a third time and ended with the same results. Left with no other option, I got ready to brave the snow outside.

Brandon was at the door when I came down bundled up in a thick, blue coat―I was very sensitive to cold. One look said what was needed to be said, and we headed towards Jenna’s house together.

Brandon had joined our daily chit chat one day and he and Jenna instantly hit it off. I was amused. He caused Jenna to let her cool slip a few times and a kid showed up from under her persona; and Jenna got Brandon to blush like a school girl with her wild tales of night time activities that always ended with a wink, wink.

After all that, Brandon still felt responsible for everything, especially the graffiti of words in both the boys’ and girls’ bathroom―even though he was the only one who bothered trying to wash the vulgar words off and ended up painting over them with pink. In both the boys’ and girls’ bathroom.

. . .

Brandon was holding Jenna in a position that allowed her to vomit into the bucket beside her bed. Once she was done throwing up, she went limp as a rag doll in Brandon’s arms. I grabbed the bucket of vomit and dumped the contents into the toilet and flushed it, then washed the bucket and returned it to its original spot beside Jenna’s bed.

In the other room were Jenna’s parents. Jen’s mom, Elle Follisco was at the last day of her menstrual cycle, and faring better her daughter, who was not as used to it as she was. They both have primary dysmenorrhoea.

Jenna took the birth control pills to delay and regulate her periods to every three months, not because she was having sex. I should have known―well; actually, I couldn’t have known that she took the pills for any other reason than to keep from getting knocked up because her public persona was the kind of confident one who was complimented on a daily basis would have. But Brandon had guessed, I think; he was the only one who managed to unearth the child underneath the mask, and the one who stopped Jenna’s tears―pain killers helped, a bit.

That day in the cafeteria, I was the first one to say that she was indubitably having sex because...what else would you need birth controls for? Tomorrow, I would patch the hole I made and other, too.

But first, I had something I need to do; I could tell Brandon and Jenna would remain just friend forever if I don’t give them a push in the right direction.

“Hey, Jen,” I said after she woke up and was sure she was not going to throw up any time soon.


“Yeah?”

“You a dare kind of girl?”

“Takes one to know one.”

“Then, I dare you to kiss Brandon.”

Both their heads shot up and they stared at me.

I laughed, and teased them “Go on, you know you want to­―and Brandon’s too chicken to make the first move.”

They blushed and peaked at each other. It looked like something out of a cheesy YA romance novel.

“Well, do you accept the dare?” I felt the beginning of a grin on my face.

She looked straight at me, the cat back, and didn’t say anything. Instead, she and Brandon stared at each other, adoration in their eyes, and I took that as my cue to leave.