It's been months since the old man has left, yet the drift caused by his departure has yet to fill.
The old lady sits at the table, staring at the empty seat that was once occupied by her love. A smell of smoke flows through the air as she lights another cigarette, letting the nicotine take control so she can stop crying.
Her sons rarely talk to her anymore, too burdened with memories to carry on conversation without painful reminiscing. She carefully folds up the curtains she's been cleaning, all the while hoping that the work would distract her from the torture inside of her. But it did not.
She glances at the pictures on her refridgerator, from her grandchildren's baby pictures to their highschool days playing football and marching in the band. Time had flown by, and she felt blessed that he had hung on for so long, long enough to see them grow up. But yet, she felt, it still wasn't long enough.
An eternity wasn't long enough to spend time with that man she loved. God she missed him.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Monday, September 17, 2007
Imagine there's a witty title here...
Staring cluelessly at the blank white screen, he ponders a hundred different ways to start the story.
After several tense minutes of soul searching, he decides the next best course of action is to check his Facebook. Quickly scanning through messages from God knows who and continuing his never ending poke battle with a friend from highschool, he decides that time is of the essence and tells the girl who gave him a 10 on Hot or Not to quit playing games with his heart.
Returning to his intense staring competition with the blank word document, he begins writing. The words begin to flow, when all of a sudden he loses his inspiration. He used the word "surplus" twice in a sentence. In an effort to make himself look like a writing God, he scours his memory for a good word to replace it... only to realize nobody is watching him and he can use the thesaurus. After changing the second "surplus" to "plethora" and giggling at the idea of his teacher thinking he's a vocabulary genius, he types in a period and is finally finished... with the first paragraph.
He loses focus on the paper as he glances at a huge mound of books, all assigned reading for the week. As he flips through page 1024 of his OTHER anthropology book, he jumps as a sudden loud beeping fills his ears. He grabs his phone and sets it on vibrate, then opens yet another text message from his girl friend. Wincing at the thought of the phone bill, he notices that the time on the device says it's 2:30 in the a.m.
As he closes the computer, planning to work on the second paragraph when he woke up, he looks over at the nametag sitting on his dresser drawer. Terrific, he thinks, I gotta work tomorrow.
He closes his eyes, but sleep does not come. All of the worries of the day, which had so pleasantly been waiting for this opportunity, come rushing in like a buffalo in heat. As he turns his computer back on to make a quick change to his fantasy football team (it just can't wait until tomorrow!), he looks at the empty wallet on his nightstand and sighs.
"I hope this is all worth it," he says to himself.
After several tense minutes of soul searching, he decides the next best course of action is to check his Facebook. Quickly scanning through messages from God knows who and continuing his never ending poke battle with a friend from highschool, he decides that time is of the essence and tells the girl who gave him a 10 on Hot or Not to quit playing games with his heart.
Returning to his intense staring competition with the blank word document, he begins writing. The words begin to flow, when all of a sudden he loses his inspiration. He used the word "surplus" twice in a sentence. In an effort to make himself look like a writing God, he scours his memory for a good word to replace it... only to realize nobody is watching him and he can use the thesaurus. After changing the second "surplus" to "plethora" and giggling at the idea of his teacher thinking he's a vocabulary genius, he types in a period and is finally finished... with the first paragraph.
He loses focus on the paper as he glances at a huge mound of books, all assigned reading for the week. As he flips through page 1024 of his OTHER anthropology book, he jumps as a sudden loud beeping fills his ears. He grabs his phone and sets it on vibrate, then opens yet another text message from his girl friend. Wincing at the thought of the phone bill, he notices that the time on the device says it's 2:30 in the a.m.
As he closes the computer, planning to work on the second paragraph when he woke up, he looks over at the nametag sitting on his dresser drawer. Terrific, he thinks, I gotta work tomorrow.
He closes his eyes, but sleep does not come. All of the worries of the day, which had so pleasantly been waiting for this opportunity, come rushing in like a buffalo in heat. As he turns his computer back on to make a quick change to his fantasy football team (it just can't wait until tomorrow!), he looks at the empty wallet on his nightstand and sighs.
"I hope this is all worth it," he says to himself.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Terror
Terror. It's a word that once sat dormant in the bowels of the dictionary, attracting no more attention than any of its homonyms. Yet, in the blink of an eye, this vile word catapulted into the limelight, delighted in sudden drones of onlookers, surpassing every noun, vowel and adjective imaginable.
The word itself is just a word. Of the billions of words used throughout the world, there is nothing extraordinary about it. Yet the feelings and memories that this single word produce make it a symbol of untold evil, of cruelty beyond measure. Wars have and are being waged over it, yet in other contexts it can simply be the thrill of a roller coasting or the shock of a scary movie.
Young men and women have left their families behind to overcome the word, and even though the mission was though to be accomplished long ago, it is still as powerful as ever.
As news stations replay the broadcasts, as though it were just a rerun of some "reality" show, the actual reality sets in. It controls us, like a puppetmaster and his stringed toy, deciding what we do and how we do it.
Terror has nothing to do with the Middle East or an unidentified enemy. It has nothing to do with airplanes or guns or explosives. It is a part of us all, and like obedient children we follow its wishes. When all foreign threats have been eliminated and order is finally restored, it will still be a part of us. As long as there is something to fear, terror will still thrive upon that fear.
Yet, when the fear becomes overwhelming and hope seems a pitiless joke, there is still a triumphant glimmer of solace. It's still just a word.
The word itself is just a word. Of the billions of words used throughout the world, there is nothing extraordinary about it. Yet the feelings and memories that this single word produce make it a symbol of untold evil, of cruelty beyond measure. Wars have and are being waged over it, yet in other contexts it can simply be the thrill of a roller coasting or the shock of a scary movie.
Young men and women have left their families behind to overcome the word, and even though the mission was though to be accomplished long ago, it is still as powerful as ever.
As news stations replay the broadcasts, as though it were just a rerun of some "reality" show, the actual reality sets in. It controls us, like a puppetmaster and his stringed toy, deciding what we do and how we do it.
Terror has nothing to do with the Middle East or an unidentified enemy. It has nothing to do with airplanes or guns or explosives. It is a part of us all, and like obedient children we follow its wishes. When all foreign threats have been eliminated and order is finally restored, it will still be a part of us. As long as there is something to fear, terror will still thrive upon that fear.
Yet, when the fear becomes overwhelming and hope seems a pitiless joke, there is still a triumphant glimmer of solace. It's still just a word.
Monday, September 3, 2007
Outside the Box
As the team took the field, there bodies toiled laboriously to perspire, roasting under the inferno that lay mockingly in the summer sky.
They ran through their drills, barely able to lift their feet as hours of repetition finally caught up to their aching muscles. Water had become a scarcity as the group fought for the last fluid ounce of hydration, but it did not matter. They would not leave the field until they achieved perfection.
The glaring eyes of the vicious dictator overseeing the practice caught even the subtlest mistake. Every misstep was captured, as though photographed, into his hawk-like retinas. As the imposing figure yelled out orders to an overeager freshman, the entire group stopped dead in their tracks. This would no doubt go late into the night.
Preparation was the key to success, and success was what they strived for the most. While each and every disgruntled body fought the urge to call it a day, not a single member would give up until they were ready for the next day's battle.
Finally, after countless attempts at the impossible, they had beaten all odds and accomplished what they had set out to do. Memorization was of the utmost importance, as they could not afford to forget their part on the field tomorrow. Each member had to bring their all to the field, not just with their bodies but with their minds and souls, as well.
As the team shuffled off the field, worn down and ready to climb into their cozy little beds, the freshman stopped the head honcho and asked him, "How do you think we'll do tomorrow?"
As experienced eyes took in the frightened young tuba player, he said with confidence, "This is the best marching band I've ever directed."
They ran through their drills, barely able to lift their feet as hours of repetition finally caught up to their aching muscles. Water had become a scarcity as the group fought for the last fluid ounce of hydration, but it did not matter. They would not leave the field until they achieved perfection.
The glaring eyes of the vicious dictator overseeing the practice caught even the subtlest mistake. Every misstep was captured, as though photographed, into his hawk-like retinas. As the imposing figure yelled out orders to an overeager freshman, the entire group stopped dead in their tracks. This would no doubt go late into the night.
Preparation was the key to success, and success was what they strived for the most. While each and every disgruntled body fought the urge to call it a day, not a single member would give up until they were ready for the next day's battle.
Finally, after countless attempts at the impossible, they had beaten all odds and accomplished what they had set out to do. Memorization was of the utmost importance, as they could not afford to forget their part on the field tomorrow. Each member had to bring their all to the field, not just with their bodies but with their minds and souls, as well.
As the team shuffled off the field, worn down and ready to climb into their cozy little beds, the freshman stopped the head honcho and asked him, "How do you think we'll do tomorrow?"
As experienced eyes took in the frightened young tuba player, he said with confidence, "This is the best marching band I've ever directed."
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