As the harsh sound of my cage being handled filled the air, we walked up the pathway to the familiar, creamy white house. The door creaked open as the distinct smell in which I knew all too well smothered my cage. It’s just as I left it, I thought. I was gently handed to the meat packer who threw my cage carelessly across the room and into a dark corner. They disappeared into the kitchen, which was blocked from my view by a wall with many pictures hanging- pictures of me, pictures of us. She hasn’t forgotten, I know she hasn’t. My eyes darted around the room, looking for signs of a permanent guest. Well, there’s two men’s jacket’s on the coat rack, and an ash tray on the dark wood coffee table. She was never a smoker, but I prayed that she started since I’ve been gone.
All I could hear was a muttered conversation between the two, and it was getting louder as it progressed. I strained my ears and shuffled to the front of my cage to listen intently. “I don’t see why you can’t let me have my way, just once!” She said in a tone I recognized immediately- it was her furious voice. I didn’t even have to see, because I knew that along with that shriek, her eyes were wide and her brows firm, just the way they used to be.
“I don’t want chicken tonight!” The meat packer roared in response. I sighed with unbelief and discontent. Are they really fighting about what to have for dinner? The way it sounded, a war was about to begin in that kitchen. She was always patient and passive, and I knew this explosion of anger was the work of the meat packer.
An empty, aching feeling filled my stomach and I couldn’t help but wince as tears slowly fell from my eyes. What has happened? Her nut brown eyes were always full of joy and pure happiness as I remember. The dresses she wore were bright and peppy, matching her bubbly personality. This is not the woman I saw, not at all. She stalked into the living room, and I instantly straightened up as my eyes followed her every move, searching for a familiar sign from the woman I once knew.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
2nd Draft of Short Story #1
Ever since she was small, she put pride and passion into everything she did. From her great grade point average, starting spot on the softball team, and perfecting her NSSYMA song. With all that effort, she just wanted someone to appreciate it. On the way home from school each day, she would casually say, “So, I got an A on my math test.” Her mother would not even turn her head, would not even smile, and would not even care. “Great.” She muttered monotonously.
When she made the game winning catch on the softball field, she gazed into the cheering crowd with an ounce of hope, but knew there would never be a time she saw her parents in the midst of the crowd, huddled on the bleachers. As the game was ended, the crowd ran onto the field, and the parents all fled to their daughters. She was left alone on the pitcher’s mound. All she wanted was to make them proud. She wanted to see her parents faces light up when she showed them her test, or dived for the ball. She wanted them to smile at her with loving eyes, and tell her they love her, and that they are proud of her. She watched others with a deep longing for what they have. She watched the girl sitting next to her at lunch open a brown bag, pull out an apple, and a note saying, “Have a nice day, love, Mom.” She watched the first baseman jump up and down while her parents are cheering frantically from behind the fence. She stared with a look of longing at the girl who played “Tree #2” in the Spring Musical, who, for that entire minute she was onstage, was overwhelmed by the cheering of her parents in the first row of the theater, while she sang her solos and acted out her lines only to receive the applause of “that little girl,” but never the praise of “my little girl.”
As the years went on, her hope didn’t. She was completely aware of the fact that she could create a scheme to get $20 from her mother, but never even just 20 seconds of time with her. It was her sophomore year of high school, and her grades began to fall. “So, I sort of got a D in math...,” she mentioned to her mother while she was filling out paperwork at the dining room table.
“Oh, very good, dear.”
No listen, mom, I have a D in math, and a C in history,” she smiled weakly and shrugged while her mother glanced up at her with impatient eyes.
“Alright, well, just do better next time,” Her mother said in an obvious tone.
“…Right…” she slowly walked away, with a sudden realization- This is not right. Why can’t my mother be like the others? It was great having no curfew, and getting money when I need it, but that doesn’t matter to me anymore. I won’t remember the $70 T-shirt I was able to buy with the money I weaseled from my mother, or the warm summer nights that I could wander the streets for endless hours, but I will remember the feeling of loneliness, and lack of support that has been ongoing. I will always long for the gentle hugs, and the long talks about life that I always hear my friends complaining about. I feel like there is a wall between my mother and me, but she is unwilling to tear it down.
When she made the game winning catch on the softball field, she gazed into the cheering crowd with an ounce of hope, but knew there would never be a time she saw her parents in the midst of the crowd, huddled on the bleachers. As the game was ended, the crowd ran onto the field, and the parents all fled to their daughters. She was left alone on the pitcher’s mound. All she wanted was to make them proud. She wanted to see her parents faces light up when she showed them her test, or dived for the ball. She wanted them to smile at her with loving eyes, and tell her they love her, and that they are proud of her. She watched others with a deep longing for what they have. She watched the girl sitting next to her at lunch open a brown bag, pull out an apple, and a note saying, “Have a nice day, love, Mom.” She watched the first baseman jump up and down while her parents are cheering frantically from behind the fence. She stared with a look of longing at the girl who played “Tree #2” in the Spring Musical, who, for that entire minute she was onstage, was overwhelmed by the cheering of her parents in the first row of the theater, while she sang her solos and acted out her lines only to receive the applause of “that little girl,” but never the praise of “my little girl.”
As the years went on, her hope didn’t. She was completely aware of the fact that she could create a scheme to get $20 from her mother, but never even just 20 seconds of time with her. It was her sophomore year of high school, and her grades began to fall. “So, I sort of got a D in math...,” she mentioned to her mother while she was filling out paperwork at the dining room table.
“Oh, very good, dear.”
No listen, mom, I have a D in math, and a C in history,” she smiled weakly and shrugged while her mother glanced up at her with impatient eyes.
“Alright, well, just do better next time,” Her mother said in an obvious tone.
“…Right…” she slowly walked away, with a sudden realization- This is not right. Why can’t my mother be like the others? It was great having no curfew, and getting money when I need it, but that doesn’t matter to me anymore. I won’t remember the $70 T-shirt I was able to buy with the money I weaseled from my mother, or the warm summer nights that I could wander the streets for endless hours, but I will remember the feeling of loneliness, and lack of support that has been ongoing. I will always long for the gentle hugs, and the long talks about life that I always hear my friends complaining about. I feel like there is a wall between my mother and me, but she is unwilling to tear it down.
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