Hybridized Fan-Fiction: The Drop-Off

Excerpt of Finding Nemo in the style of Edgar Allen Poe


It was a place at the cease point of the reefs; there was no safety, no security, where all factions of comfort vanished within the moment the eyes were set upon it. It was titled, and with most accurate depiction embedded, the Drop-Off. There bordered the frontier to a world unexplored for Marlin, a clown fish significantly inadequate of risibility.

The Drop-Off was a bluff ledge that separated the coral reefs -the ones of which the clown fish had lived, and all else. At the cliffs peak, it was an experience surreal, an edge to an abyss, nothing more than the Sea and darkness for near eternal bounds. This, Marlin stared into, vigorously admonishing his bairn: Nemo.

He was in constant fear for his gimped and sole son. The young fish was deformed from hatch, his right fin unmatched in size to the other; a tragedy induced this as well as the murder of his mother and many siblings. None but Nemo and his father survived the brutal assail, and writhed with fright had Marlin thus been since.

And now this father had arrived to witness his child treading directly before the impending nothingness. Upon alarm, he rushed for him.

"Nemo!" he cried, embracing him tightly. The young fish squirmed in his father's tight hold brimming with bewilderment and vexation. "Why would you tempt fate as to venture into the uncharted? Surely, you know better!"

"But not was I to venture," Nemo pursued to clarify; "for only did my glance meander in awe, not wanderlust-"

"Enough!" Marlin bellowed. "You of all I have never known to be wanton, and yet, we are here, at the doors to certain peril. You know you are handicapped."

Nemo's voice grew with rage. "I can swim fine, father! Do not speak of me with such inequity; am I not fish like rest?"

To his reason, Marlin only reflected fear. "You engrave these thoughts into your mind that you have such capabilities, but you do not. You are frail and insufficient a swimmer; as your father it is my duty to protect you, so listen child when I establish that you cannot do these things, Nemo!"

Nemo abstained his eyes from his father's, his cold-blooded heart boiled. "I detest you," he murmured.

Melancholy contorted Marlin's features; he sighed with utmost despair and his fins drooped instantly to his sides, lifelessly.

The ray fish that had been Nemo's class professor took cognizance of their dispute. He approached Marlin offering to assist them of any troubles.

As the two spoke artificial palaver, it was spotted and exclaimed by another young fish -of noticeably sizable dentition- the sight of Nemo swimming profusely off the great ledge. It was indeed what Marlin turned to find.

Nemo moved upon excessive force to have as much ocean water between them as possible; not once did he look back. Marlin reprimanded him, shouting for him to come back, though he did not.

No amount of course language could turn him back in the direction of his father's arms. It was futile, none the less, Marlin continued. It was not until the fate he feared had arose did he silence; a most vile and massive beast emerged directly in the presence of Nemo. Nemo shrieked and wailed at the sight of the monster. Helpless, he swam mad in attempt of escape as the devilish brute clasped him.    

With immense horror, Marlin screamed. His heart was pounding upon his breast as though it were to burst. The strange and monstrous creature abducted his son and fled with him in their grasp! Marlin charged only to find in his path a second fiend, one with a box of ebony color that released a light as of Aether's. The heavenly flash blinded him; the stinging of his eyes seeping in to his brains. He floated aimlessly in a circular pattern, unaware to the lack of frontward progression, for the spinning in his head made it difficult enough attempting not to tip to his side.

Slowly and wearily, his sight returned and he caught glimpse of a craft. He swam as swiftly as he could muster towards it. Oh, but alas! the mechanical vessel had absconded into the vast and salted waters.

Talk About A Grand Entrance!: Humor and Satire Essay

This I am about to tell you, is the entirely true story of a very messy, stressful, and overall chaotic day, otherwise known by my family as the day I was born. 

And no, I am not kidding.

I wish I was.

Actually, no I don't. This is hilarious. 

It was a cold but clear autumn morning, comfortable yet not too comfortable. My father paced excitedly back and forth across the driveway as the car warmed up, making the calls that I was on my way. Now keep in mind, this was 1999, a time before things like social media and such, when news traveled slower than it now does. Despite this, in some way still unknown to my parents, by the time they reached the hospital, my mother's brother Uncle Mike had already been there for some time. He lived ten minutes farther away and was not even the first person to get the call; it's an enigma, then again so is he. 

My parents checked in and were given a room. They sat for some time, my mother's patience beginning to chip away and my father hooking her up to the machine through his past knowledge other recent trips. Soon the doctor entered and only with news that my mother was not very far along and that they should just go home and wait. She would not take this, however. Rather, she went out of the room and walked the halls, and walked, and walked. It was her attempt at moving me along. 

A good mile and a half later and... nothing. This was the moment in which my dad now wishes he took as a sign of how long it was going to take me to get ready in the morning. 

It was now the grandparents began to arrive. And it was one, my father's father Pa, that was especially nervous. He, much like my father, and my mother, and my mother's father, and my mother's grandfather, and his father, and my little brother, and myself; he had crazy anxiety. Pa also happened to be in the process of quitting smoking, so without the cigarettes it was even worse. To help, he applied a nicotine patch, though this was not enough. What had helped before apparently was caffeine. To get some food and drinks, now several hours after arriving with little sign of myself arriving as well, the grandparents went to go get some food. Luckily there was a Pizza Hut right across the street, so they went. Pa ordered two ice coffees and two large diet cokes to caffeinate himself. The rest just had pizza. As they ate, bickering could be heard from over their shoulders. It was a customer and the manager; they were arguing. The little skirmish grew louder and louder until all other chatter ceased and all other eyes were on them. A screaming match had begun.

Suddenly, a chandelier in the pizza place crashed and shattered on the floor, no warning to it either. Everyone in the Pizza Hut was inspected for injuries; no one in my family was hurt. But that did not stop one of them from being sent to the emergency room... 

Pa's caffeine was now starting to take effect, all of it. Now I am still not sure why he thought caffeine would help calm his nerves, maybe because he's addicted to that too, though the only effect it had on him was hyper activity. This would be usually not all that life threatening simply to be on a crazy sugar rush, only if it weren't for the fact the he also was on the nicotine from the patch. You're not supposed to do that, and it seems he had learned the hard way. All of the chemicals in his body evidently gave him heart palpitations and this was believed to be a heart attack. Pa spent what ended up being a several hours in the emergency room just a few floors below my parents. 

Meanwhile, my other grandfather we refer to as Poppy was called by a co-worker and went to find a quiet spot to converse with them. Unfortunately, the maternity wing itself was filled with nothing but the sounds of screaming soon-to-be mothers and newborn children, occasionally scared spouses as well. Since of this, Poppy took the call from inside the nearest elevator. 

This went from a pretty good idea to a really bad one rather quickly.     

Not too far into call, the elevator got stuck. This situation is not a fun one, no matter who you are, but to make it worse for him, he already has anxiety and can easily to made jumpy plus someone in the elevator with him whom just happens to be very fond of elevators. At all. 

The other man in the elevator was in a state of pure panic and immense fright. He walked in tight circles, his hands on his temples, then on his cheeks, then in his hair, then over his eyes, then back to his temples. The stranger was having a nervous breakdown. Minutes later, the security guards of the building were able to open doors enough to squeeze a person through, but then also realized that the elevator was frustratingly place between two floors. They could not climb up either, so they had to jump down. Poppy did not waste any time getting out of there once they let him jump. The other guy, however, was too freaked out to, so Poppy stayed to help talk him down. 

It had been 10-12 hours by the time we finally had everyone in the same place, which was great, but not the end of the story. Because when you have been sitting in the hospital for 10-12 hours, suffering from not only immense irritation as a whole but ceaseless pain and hunger and thirst. These go along with several other things too. You are not happy person at this time, rather you are a monstrous and frightening being because you are just that 100% done with everything. If my father never feared my mother before, he sure as hell did that day. 

It was as if she had been possessed. Her eyes molded into a look of Death; her teeth were gritting enough ultimately crush each other or anything else that got too close; her voice may have even dropped a few octaves in her growling shushes and roaring "SHUT UP!"s. Her trigger happy clicks for more morphine were the only sounds she aloud. Whispers were too loud. Eating was too loud. Walking around was too loud. Breathing was becoming too loud. And then-!

Well before anyone actually got a chance to be killed, I finally decided to show up. So in the end, it was all good. And now my family can look back at this crazy day and laugh...um, well, sort of.            

List Slam Poetry

To the child in the corner too shy to speak
Whose head is dropped with their eyes to their feet because they fear making eye contact
Your voice is worth hearing
Do not be afraid of what to say
Do not be afraid of how they will react
Do not put it in you head your that you are not worth your voice
Do not let others put it in your head that you are not worth you voice
Do not doubt that what you want to say is not worth saying
Do not doubt that that your words can change something, anything, everything
Do not let yourself remain unknown to the world around
Do not let yourself remain unknown to the person sitting next to you
Do not let yourself remain unknown to yourself
The quietest people have the loudest thoughts
Speak your mind
Do not regret it

Student Poem Form: D-Mck Thingamajig

This poem follows the rhyme pattern:
A
A
A,B
B
B,C
C

There is such sweetness to a love like thine
I am a winter warmed by new sunshine
Where a life divine resurrects to anew
What was lost long once in an icy frozen brew
The buds then grew so tall and sweet
As the blooms awoke from their snowy retreat

Free Verse Poem

 He had tears dripping down his puffy red cheeks,
 And he had burns lined in rows on his thighs.
 And I tried not to cry.
 At least I tried. 

 It was going so well,
 This little battle of ours,
 Bodies remained standing even in the clouds of smoke. 

 So busy enjoying the success we became Napoleons,
 We let our guard down and suffered a crushing blow. 

 And it was times like these when a soldier questions their battles,
 He was placing ponder to his own. 

 He wanted to raise the white flag,
 Take execution if he had to.
 He wanted to surrender,
 And I couldn't blame him,
 But I couldn't let him be defeated either. 

 I told him:
 The battle is almost won.
 Yet, it is only a battle. 

 When it's won you receive nothing more than a few days peace before boots are only shined to be bloodstained again.

 For the wars of which every man fights is endless.
 There is no true victory to it,
 The smoke never clears until we lie defeated, 

 But we continue to fight. 

 Because these wars are not about victory or succession,
 Rather keeping our chins up and our eyes glaring proud even when you know you have no chance to leave the battlefield alive. 

 Not backing down,
 Not giving up,
 Not surrendering.

 We fight for our army,
 Our supporters,
 The people who won't let us surrender.

 We fight to see their smiles each day,
 And love them,
 And cherish them. 

 So I say once more the battle is almost won,
 And I shall polish my boots and bayonets,
 Only to tarnish with blood and dirt and gunpowder,
 To stand with chin raised and eyes glaring 

 In preparation to fight another day.

Three Step Poem

Draft 1

There is a force in our existence to which we are bound.
It is found, weighing us to the ground. 
No matter how high you try to fly you will fall.
No matter how short or tall, it is the same for all, you will fall. 
And the purpose for the course of this force is simple.
It may feel unjust to us, but without it wouldn't exist.
For there have been tries to touch the skies and did.
People that defied the ties to their shoes and flew.
But few you got to touch the stars and taste the sky, had died from a lack of oxygen. 
There is reason that what goes up must come down, no matter how much it hurts to drop from the clouds. 
Without a sense of where to rest our feet, the flying wouldn't cease, and the brain would tire from the lack of oxygen.
As much as we hate to be put in our place, we own our thanks, to gravity. 


Revision: grammatical and word choice improved for better flow, sentences dropped, split up to make more lines and establish emphasis on certain lines, added another list piece


Draft 2

There is a force in our existence to which we are bound
And it is found
Weighing us to the ground 
No matter how high you try to fly you will fall
No matter how short or tall, if you walk, run or crawl
It is the same for all
You will fall
And the purpose for the course of this force is simple
It may feel unjust to us, but without it we wouldn't exist
For there have been tries to touch the skies and did
People that defied the ties to their shoes and flew
But the few you got to touch the stars and taste the sky
Died from a lack of oxygen
There is reason that what goes up must come down
No matter how much it hurts to drop from the clouds
Without a sense of where to rest our feet, the flying wouldn't cease
And the brain would tire from the lack of oxygen
As much as we hate to be put in our place
We own our thanks, to gravity 


Revision: poem has been broken into stanzas of three and four lines with more lines added, more word choice fixes 

Final 

There is a force in our existence to which we are bound

And it is found

Weighing us to the ground 

No matter how high you try to fly you will fall

No matter how short or tall, if you walk, run or crawl

It is the same to all

You will fall

And the course of this force is simple

It may feel unjust to us

But without it 

We wouldn't exist

For there have been tries to touch the skies and did

People who defied the ties to their shoes and flew

But the few you got to touch the stars and taste the sky

Died from a lack of oxygen

There is a reason that 

What goes up 

Must come down

No matter how much it hurts to drop from the clouds

Without a sense of where to rest our feet

The flying wouldn't cease

And the brain would tire from the lack of oxygen

So as much as we hate to be put in our place

We own our thanks

To gravity 

The Oven House: Synecdoche Essay

It was an old door. Bound by rusty, loose hinges and rotted out wood, iron nails that barely had a purpose anymore, bent and twisted so out of shape they were more Tetanus hazards than hardware. Yet despite it all, the big sheet of aging maple with two dead bullets buried at its center still remained in place.

That door had weathered a lot of storms in its time, ones of the sky and of others. The others are what wear it down the most, they are always blowing through it's chipped paint frame. Sometimes that door is left wide open, the cool air coming in to push the hot air out, or as much as it can. There was a lot of hot, suffocating air behind that door. Other times the door shut and locked, a barrier between a house and the rest of the world.

Often the door is opened with careless swings, big and wide, the brass little knob warmed to the fingers grasping it; those times are in the day. But then evening comes and cold makes the tumblers sticky only to be nearly ripped off the hinges with a single thrusting motion, the knob smeared in skin oils and sweat and the friction of a too-tight wedding ring burning heat on the brass. This was contrary to soft and gentle push received after midnight, and again before dawn, It was where the knob shook timidly, no warmer a touch than the night frost already made its metal, later razor scuffs and blood wedged in fingerprints patterns find their way on the brass. They will be rubbed off to prepare for the first careless swing of morning when the evening's hot air can start to go away.

To the Attempts of "Lightening Up'': Angry Letter Essay

Dear My Loving Mother and Father,

   I understand fully that it is in you two's best interest that I am happy and healthy in my childhood, I am fully and totally aware of that. However, there is a piece to this parental behavior that I must make clear is a frustrating one in my eyes, and this behavior is the one of touching my things without my forewarned knowledge and/or consent.

   It has been, since I was very little, that I have liked to place personal belongings in specific places to enhance my own environmental comfort. Although when tampered with, can leave me rather frustrated and distraught. I place things where I place things because I want them there, not because I am "too busy" to move it or am "too lazy", it is simply that I thought no more a convenient and appropriate spot for those objects to be. There is also the fact of how I remember quite clearly the particulars of where these belongings have been place.

   If something of mine is to be borrowed without my knowing, I would appreciate if it were to be placed back from where you had taken it. Otherwise, to be in my shoes and come home from school (being the first one in the house after a five hour period roughly) only to see objects moved out of place leaves me question what might have occurred while the house was kept unattended. You two, of all people, know I am a very anxious person with a overactive imagination to say the least about it and would prefer not to feel obligated to rummage the house in attempt to discover what might have been stolen from us. Not to mention the two people in which this high leveled anxiety was inherited, cough cough yourselves, therefore meaning you may and should sympathize with what, through experience I have learned, appears crazy to most outsiders.

  This I have described is only a last resort, however, because ultimately what I am wanting of is for my belongings not to be touched without my permission overall. That is most candidly what I desire. It is not enjoyable to get back from summer camp to find my closet rearrange, or my toiletries awkwardly placed at the bottom drawer of our vanity. These things bother me greatly, and I am deeply sorry if this comes across as a form of "sass" to you, that is not intentional, all that is intentional is me trying to get my point across. At this point in my letter, you are probably associating me with Francis (Psycho) from the movie Stripes, honestly I do not blame you. I must sound like him, and also much like him I probably need to "lighten up" as the famous quote goes, yet that is not an easy task without your cooperation. Thank you for listening.

Love, Your Daughter,
Rachel.

Timed Prompt and Post Script

It was Christmas Eve, fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindbergh Field. I was waiting for a man with a red baseball cap. I never knew his name, never saw his face, all I knew him by was that red cap.

I hate being out so late, the cold winter stung your cheeks and and froze your breath, not to mention being alone at night is where most people die in horror movies. That was a big part of it too.

A few minutes ticked by and I was getting nervous. Suddenly out of the corner of my eye a splotch of red appeared in the endless sea of grey mist. He was here.

I swallowed, my throat stinging from the icy air. He walked to me, the spot of red floating towards me, a phantom in the night. "Hello," I called, a crack to my voice breaking the syllables. I was granted no response, only red the bobbing forward. "You have what I asked for?"  Again, no response, but now footsteps could be heard, loud and heavy. Next, a white trash bag I could see in his hands. That was my answer.

Abruptly, he stopped just before the moon's glow could reveal his features, and plopped the bag before my feet. "Everything's here," he told me, "everything on the list."

"Oh, thank you very much!" I praised, a little shaky. "How much much do you want? I don't have much, but I promise I'll repay you-"

No need," the capped man said, "there is no charge."

I was in shock. "Thank you sir, thank you! You are a saint, truly! You are in my blessing, Mr...?"

He dove his hands into his coat pockets, and rose his chin. "Nick." He grinned. "Call me Nick." The man stepped back into fog and was gone, even the bright, red cap vanished in seconds.

The bag and myself were all that remained. I bent down and looked inside; it was filled with toys, toys for the kids. "Thank you, saint Nick. Thank you, and Merry Christmas."



Post Script:

In the article The Plot Sickens by Fanny Howe, Howe speaks of her writing assignment being the same one we used in class. Every student was giving the same first two sentences to work with and limited time to see what the the individuals could come up with. In result of Howe's prompt in her class, she came to the conclusion that most of the pieces written were dark and/or left with out resolution to the plot line. Another thing Howe mentioned was the lack of "heroism" to the protagonists, or in better words one could say "likability" to them. She then went on to express why she believed this to be as it was, saying that it due the cultural aspects of society today and how it is affecting young teens. However, reading this article in comparison to my own piece, I must say that my story very much goes against the points she makes in her article, not only resulting in a clear ending to what was happening with the mysterious entry, but also without violence or crude drama. So in conclusion, I would say that I do not see Howe's speculations as true to the extensive extremes she believes there to be.    

Blind Dates: Points of View Essay

Is that her? I think so..

Is that him? God, I hope it's not. 

It must be! She looks just how she was described, no, better.

Why do friends try to set each other up? Maybe I like to be alone. Maybe I want to be alone. Forever. Like I've been so far and probably always will be... I'm not bitter.  

She looks so beautiful! I hope I don't make a mess of this; say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing. I'm sure I won't. I just have to relax. Just relax. Ah, she's coming!

At least he got a good table.  

Here we go. So nervous!

Let's just get this over with already. 

Say hello. Say good evening. Say something! Come on, speak already! "Hi! You're Amy's friend, right? So nice to meet you; you look lovely. My name's Wesley. You can call me Wes."

I most certainly will not.

"And you?"

"Kasey." Is he gonna shake my hand? I think he's gonna- Yup, there it is. Aaaannnddd, jeez his hand is sweaty! 

Her hands are ice cold! But you know what they say; cold hands, warm heart.

Ha, nice manicure you got there!

I bet her's is the kindest of them all!

Pretty sure he hasn't blinked once since I got here. He's not like got some disorder, does he? No, he speaks good and acts, um, I don't know. I don't think Amy would force me to go on a date with a crazy person though.  

What do I say now? What am I supposed to do? Think! Think!

Oh! "Shall we have a seat?"  

"...uhh," Are those rolls I see? "Sure!" 

Ooh, these chairs are pretty comfy too. Okay, I guess I'll stay a little bit. 

Next, what do I do? Well at this point most people usually start a conversation. Hmm, how to start a conversation... "So, Kasey, share with me a little about yourself."

Must I? Personally, I would prefer to sit in silence and eat if it was up to me. But he's gonna keep staring at me if I don't say something. Ugh. "I'm a bartender, but I'm working to be a lawyer, and what else-"

A lawyer wow! She must be super smart!

"-I like to ski, surfing, running, volleyball-"

Sports! Where am I supposed to interject with similarities to her passions if they all required the one thing I cannot do!

"-and music-"

"W-w-wait a minute. You like music? I like music too! What kind of music do you like?

Maybe if I'm brutally honest I can scare him off. I mean, the kid's wearing a sweater vest, I'm sure he's just as prim and proper as the stereotypes say. "I like punk music, heavy-metal, head banging and spiked boots and black hair dye. That stuff." 


What an interesting taste! Very unique, edgy; I'm intrigued. "Fascinating! I prefer jazz music."

"Mmm hmm."

"And the occasional hip-hop."

"I'm sure you do." He's actually picking up on my sarcasm, isn't he?

I need to leave a lasting impression now. Maybe express that I have some cool talent? "I beat-box too-"

Apparently he's not.

"-would you like to hear it?"

In the name of all that is good in this world, no. 

I really hope I can actually do this.

Please don't do this. Please don't do this. Oh my god, you're gonna do this. You're doing this. You're an idiot. 

I think I'm doing good! You go, Wes man! Bringin' the funk! See you got around the whole sports and smarts thing! And look she agreed to come, you must have done something well. I just wish I knew what.

I gotta get out of here. 

I hope this never ends.

Who would've put me with this freak of nature?

Who would pare me with this someone so out of my league?

That's what I will never understand about blind dates.      

One Act Play

Setting- Middle o' Nowhere Land

Characters- bus driver (non-speaking role)1, bus driver 2, workaholic, that family, the guy with allergies, the old lady, the crazy person, snobby chick

Scene: (The scene starts with all the characters sitting in what would be staged as a bus-like seating arrangement, quickly running through each of the characters entrances for the audience to view them individually first hand. Workaholic enters the bus in a business suit with brief case, a cellphone and a Bluetooth multi-tasking both talking and texting at once. The family gets on, they look cookie-cutter stereotypical, the kids being frustrating and/or bickering with each other, the parents are as dorky as it gets. The man with allergies enters, tissues overflowing from his pockets, coughing, sneezing, hacking up mucus, etc. The older woman steps on, she wears a hand knit looking sweater cross necklace and glasses with her tiny purse clutched tight to her. The crazy man enters the bus, his clothes are mis-matched and habits consist of darting his eyes left to right and murmuring to himself. The stuck-up woman gets on the bus, she wears expensive looking yet gaudy clothes and is reapplying lipstick as she walks. The bus driver will be kinda quiet and tired looking, does not appear very awake, and keeps pulling out a pink/purple pill bottle  The bus driver passes out at the wheel, and the bus crashes into a tree.)

(everyone jerks foreword abruptly)

Workaholic: (nearly drops the cell phone in his hands) What the hell was that?!

Old Lady: Oh, dear! What in heavens just occurred! It nearly scared me half to death. 

Father: (stands up) (cheesily dramatic voice) I think we crashed!

Snobby Chick: Crashed!?

Allergies Guy: (sneezes rather loudly) 

Daughter: (tugs on mother's sleeve) Mommy, what happened?

Son: (also to mother) (not sounding frightened as much curious) Are we gonna die? 

Crazy Man: (manic hysteric laughter in background, not done in reaction to anything any of characters said, just laughing to himself) 

(confused, uncomfortable, and weirded out glances are shot at crazy man)  

Mother: (stands up and notices the driver has not moved) (turns to husband) Sweetums, I'll go check out the driver. (gets up from her seat and inspects the unconscious driver) Ooh my! It looks like someone has a little bump on their head! Oh, and what's this? (finds the bottle of pills in his pocket) Benadryl. 

Allergies Guy: So he fell (cough 2x) a-(cough)-sleep at the- (cough 3x, inhale, cough, inhale, cough 2x) wheel and then (hacking)-hit his head in the crash and (cough 4x, clear throat, sniff nose) 

Snobby Chick: But what about the bus?!

Old Woman: (speaking from outside to in) Well I'm no mechanic, but I'd say this thing is busted to entirety.  

(everyone rushes outside to see the damage)

Workaholic: No no no no! This can't happen now! If I don't get back to the office in an hour I'm crucified!

Old Woman: I was on my way to see the grand kids. They were so excited to see me, and grandma only gets to visit a few times a years. I don't get out of the house as much as I use to, you know.

Snobby Chick: Excuse me, I had a party to go to! I'd say far more important than a job, or some bratty kids! Those are everywhere, but this night was supposed to be once in a life time.

Old Woman: Well that was rather impolite, young lady. 

Snobby Chick: Bite me. 

Son: (bites snobby chick's leg)

Snobby Chick: Ow! Get off me you little-

Father: Whoa there, that's my son you're talking to.

Snobby Chick: Well your son, (say "son" in disgust) just took a bite out of my flesh! And I don't have to listen to you anyway, I can do whatever I want.

Mother: (trying not to loose her cool) Hun, I would suggest if you knew what was best for yah, that you would not talk to my husband like that. 

Snobby Chick: Well at least your husband is worthy of even having me speak to him.

Mother: (loosing her cool) Cover your eyes kiddos, (rolls up sleeves) it's about to get pretty ugly.  

Allergies Man: Stop kicking up all the dust! It's making me- (sneeze two or three times)  

Workaholic: Would you please shut up, I'm trying to make a call!

Snobby Chick: It's not gonna work, we got no service.

Father: Well there has to be some way to contact someone! Does anyone have ideas?

(the group goes silent)

Crazy Man: (mumbling quietly, as he has in the distance the whole time)

Father: (to crazy man) What is it man! Speak up! Anything you say could be helpful in getting us home!

Crazy Man: (looking at father, then others now staring at him as he is about to speak) (says nothing but some squawking and random gibberish) 

Workaholic: (sarcastic) Ah yes, because asking a man with no brains to speak always leads to the answer! 

 (all start fighting again) 

Allergies Guy: (coughing entirely through speech ->) Maybe... we should... (coughing becomes too much and he doesn't finish speaking) (is drowned out by the noise of fighting people anyway)

Old Woman: (yelling above the arguing voices) All of you, quit your gabbering!

(everyone shuts up)

Old Woman: Thank you. (starts inspirational speech, background music slowly fades in to be present at the end, others reacting, speaker's voice clear and dramatic sort of) Now I know we have our differences, our own ways of thinking and acting, that at this very moment some of you may want to kill each other, and I understand that. Back in nineteen sixty-t-

Workaholic: (irritated) Come on lady, let's get to the point!

Old Woman: (scowls at workaholic, then expression fades as she gets back on track) Anyway, my point is that. There is one thing we have in common folks, and that is our want and desire to get out of here. I may just be a small wrinkled lady on my own, but as one mind of all of ours, we could accomplish something. We could get out of here, but to do this, we're going to have to work together. 

Now who's with me?

(All characters slowly join. In exact order, it goes as follows in dialogue, a few second between first few and last one, following an arched motion of speech.)

Allergies Guy: (sneezes, wipes nose with sleeve) You know what guys, (sneezes again and turns to others) I think she's right. Fighting isn't gonna get uh- uh- uh- ('US' mid sneeze, wipes nose again, nasal inhale) anywhere. (turns to old woman) I'm in.

Father: Me too.

Mother: Sounds good to me dear!

Son/Daughter: We wanna help to-o!

Crazy Guy: Yaaaaaa!

Workaholic: Eh, why not. Without wifi I'm screwed alone. I'm in.       

Snobby Chick: (thinking pause, sigh) Alright.

Old Woman: See, isn't this wonderful? All of us joining together like this, it's reminder that not everything is lost in this world. Now let's get to wor- 

Daughter: Mommy! Mommy! I see another bus! 

Mother: What sweetie?

Daughter: (points down the road) Look!

(everyone turns and looks offstage, bus noises are made, door sound, man walks out from stage left)

Bus Driver 2: Morning folks, looks like quite the crash you've all been in now. Don't worry we're here to pick you up.

Old Woman: Why, thank you very much sir. But may I ask, how did you find us?

Bus Driver 2: Ah, when we got no response through the bus radio. We bus drivers can communicate through radios like truckers do. When this unit made no response to my call, I asked our operator to send me this here bus's route. Just drove until I found you. 

Workaholic: Well that was anti-climatic.

Snobby Chick: You're telling me. Welp, all this touching, children's movie plot stuff has made me thirsty. Who wants some coffee? 

(simultaneously) Workaholic: Yup! /Allergies Guy: Some nice, hot liquid would be good for my throat. /Mother: Coffee would be lovely! /Father: Mmm hmm, now we're talking! /Crazy Guy: (nods head rapidly) /Old Woman: I wouldn't mind a cup for myself.

(all walking off stage where the bus is supposed to be)

Daughter: Mommy, what's coffee?

Mother: Oh, it's an adult drink, honey.

Daughter: Like the bahrk-ardy stuff you keep under the bed?

Mother: Shh, not now honey. (patting daughter's head)  We can talk about this another time alright?

Daughter: Okay.

(as they finish walking off stage, lights go down)

Three Peer Takaways

"60 Seconds...Or Not..." by Francesca Maciejko- In the few words of this wonderfully written, laugh out loud narrative, Francesca is able to clearly capture how it feels to be undeniably consumed by an urge, and hers being, well, dental hygiene. This one's a great read for sure!

"A Father's Love" by Lakynne Sargent- This story is everything it sounds, yet so much more. A Father's Love is a beautifully descriptive and detailed piece, with a startling twist ending that you will not see coming.

"Do I Look Okay?" by Nicole Nagle- Nicole's self deprecation was the cutest piece of writing I've read in a while. This funny, light-hearted description of her "greatest fear" that I'm sure many teenage girls can sympathize with. It's a super funny story every reader will enjoy.  

Grey Daisy: Unreliable Narrator Essay [Test]

"Do things for yourself," my father had told me as a little girl, "not relying on others is living. All other things are weakness. If you can't learn to live without depending on me," he blew a puff with his cigar between his words, "then quit living." It was then I saw just how weak dependence was. From then on I did everything myself.

I started living that day.

Nothing I ever got came from another person; I grew up knowing I needed to stand on my own two feet, no leaning on others for support. I wanted to be worth living. I wanted to prove to my father I was worth having a life. And well, here I was a full grown woman, standing on my own two feet for sure, but not moving, just standing.

I had not done all too much in the past few years. Mostly, but not limited to sitting, sleeping, drinking, smoking, more drinking, and the occasional popping of a few pills. Not a real full life or anything but it did not matter too much.

That afternoon it had been my fifth cigarette and my fourth drink... I think. I lost track pretty quick of these things. My doc's fed up with all the drugs, those being the lightest of drugs I've done in while. I guess he's got reason to be so bull with me, his job is to keep me from dying, but I wouldn't really care if I dropped dead this moment. I might even be a little happy, you know? I think that's 'cause I would get to see Nel again.

Nel was my boyfriend, longtime boyfriend, and the kids' father. I loved him, he was the only person I ever loved. I can't say I needed him to be happy, because I don't need people, but he sure was nice to have around. The night I found out he had been killed in that car wreck almost made me put a bullet in my head. Though I didn't, that would have meant I depended on him, and like I said, I'm better than that.

My front door creaked open some and the sound of little footsteps could be heard. Jody and David were home from school, the kids, my kids. They slipped off their coats and hats, stomping the snow from there boots, and running straight up stairs. No hellos between us, but it was fine that way. 

Jody was nine and her brother was seven. That was as much as I really knew about them. Me and the kids didn't speak all too much, we just kinda shared a house. Before Nel died we used to at least hang out together, after that though I stopped talking, started drinking, and they learned to do what all people have to do; they learned to live without help. Some could argue it is a little early for them to be taking care of themselves like they do, but that's the age I learned, and hey I turned out fine. 

They make their own food, they wash their own dishes, they even do their own laundry. They didn't need me much less than I had needed my father. Or Nel.

Jody and David I could at least tolerate the presence of. Most children I can't stand.

Eh, kids. I don't know why people like 'em so much. They're just another bother, another burden, they take so much out of you 'cause they rely on you for everything. Hell, I didn't want them! Kids are just annoying little brats, I hated myself as a kid even.

It was pretty slow for most of that day, like all days went for me, slow and quiet and even slower. I sat there with drink in hand and a cigarette pressed to my lips when I noticed something moving behind me out of the corner of my eye. I got up and took a look outside.

There was small ashy colored cat lying on the concrete slab out there that was supposed to be some kind of a patio. The thing could not have been more than a couple months old. A big puff ball of fluffy fur with big eyes and push pin needles for teeth.

I didn't mind it there, it wasn't bothering me really. Well, it hadn't bothered me for a long while, then not too long later the started pacing. Next was it's face pressed to the door. And lastly, came the meowing, and the more meowing, and the more insufferable meowing. 

After some time of it, I felt like I was going insane. Eventually, I started to get a little frustrated.

"Shut up!" I screamed from my chair in the living room. "Shut up, you imbecile!" It kept on going. "My god! Quiet you ******* *******, piece of ****!"  I believe I had hit my ninth drink by then, my colorful vocabulary was starting to show. Up from my chair now, I was at the door. "What do yah want! What? What is it! Food? Is it ******* food you want! Well here! Here!" I took the first thing from the pantry I could find which ended up being a bag of chips and threw it out the door, slamming it shut. "Happy?"

It wasn't. Stupid thing didn't eat. "Oh, COME ON!"

"She doesn't like chips," a little voice had chirped. I whipped around to find it was Jody, David peeking out from behind her shoulder. "The kitten, she likes cheese." She spoke quiet like a little mouse or something, looking me dead in the eye. I was realizing then that I hadn't heard her speak to me in weeks, my own daughter's voice unrecognizable until paired with a face in my own house. But hey, nobody's prefect. With David though, it probably had been years. The kid never opened his mouth. I'm not sure if I know what he sounds like. 

"What do yah mean about the cat liking cheese?" I said. "You been feeding it?" 

She nodded her head, silently, those massive deep set eyes of hers staring coerce to make contact with mine. "She's been coming to the door often now, but you're usually sleepin' when she does, and we'll go outside and play with her too. We've tried giving her all sorts of foods, the favorite is cheese." 

I looked back at the cat, clawing my sliding glass door. "Well then give it some cheese so it'll get out of here!" They jumped up at my words and rushed to the fridge and got a slice of cheese I didn't even know we had, I sure as hell didn't buy. They used their combined strength to get to push the door enough they could get a hand through. The door jammed a lot, I was the only one who could get it open really.  

A few hours passed and it was still at my door. Not meowing anymore, thank god, but just resting. Then it started to rain. It was light at first, only drizzling, but not before long the drizzle became a pour. The cat then finally got up from my patio, however only to go stroll through the goddamn rain. What the hell is it doing! I thought, It's winter! It's like 35 degrees out there! I wasn't going to be scooping a dead animal off my yard any time soon. 

I forced open the sliding door and ran into the rain. "No, no no, you stupid animal!" I yelled at that little fur ball, running out into the rain. My now soggy cigarette burnt out so I just flicked it away. "Do yah got a death wish or something? Only a complete idiot would think its a good idea to go prancing in a storm in February! You're gonna get yourself hypothermia! You want that?" It made no response, barely even a turn of the head. I sighed.

"Look. You seem to be missing a great deal of sense, and I don't like helping others and all, but I'm just gonna give you some guidance, some direction. Don't think I'm necessarily doing stuff for yah, I'm just giving a hint sorta, but you gotta do the rest. Okay?" I leaned down and picked up the slippery wet cat, the fur clinging to my fingers. Gross, I tell you.

Holding it up, the kitten gave me this look of all innocence and stuff. Then it went on purring and pawing at me. "Nice try," I told it, "but I'm not gonna fall for that 'love me I'm so cute' crap. It may work with the rest of the damn population, but not with me." I brought it to the front of my shed, put it down, and opened the door. "There. That's all I'm gonna give you. Nothing else from here." I began to walk away, looking back every couple of steps to make sure it went in.  

But the stupid thing didn't go inside; it just sat there looking at me. I could have just continued on with my life, ignored the cat, yet something came on to me, a weird feeling that just would not let me turn my back. I gave in to it and started back to the furry thing. "C'mon, get!" I yelled, pointing to the shed. I was soaking now, drenched from head to toe and not very happy either. "Look see the shed right there, that nice dry place to stay in a storm? Yeah, you see that!" It turned and glanced at the shed before coming around right back towards me. "Don't come to me! Ugh!" This thing was driving me crazy, it was so retarded it couldn't even figure out the basics to survival! "Fine fine!" I hollered at it. "Do you know what!" I picked it up and trudged through the mucky grass back to my house. "I at least know you won't get yourself killed in here."

I plopped the cat on the shag carpet in the living room, closed the sliding door best I could and then poured myself another drink. I could change out of these wet clothes after. 

The cat was so fascinated by the house, it explored every little part of it, such a curious thing. When it was done checking out the downstairs, it went up.

When I put down my then emptied glass, I went up to go change into something dry. At the top of the stairs I could here the kids giggling over something. Wondering what all the commotion was about I made my way to their room and carefully creaked open the door enough to see inside but not disturb them. They were playing with the cat, giving it things to toy with while they stroked its soft fur. It was, kinda sweet actually. I watched them together a bit more. They were so happy with that cat, but also with each other. Quite shortly I forgot about getting changed.   

I continued watching from outside the door. I must not have been as non-disruptive as I thought I was because eventually they noticed I was there. I felt sorta weird just watching now they saw me, and I launched up and pretended I was not paying attention to them. Though before I finished standing up, Jody opened the door. 

"Do you wanna come sit with us?" She asked, a smirk curling up the side of her lips. 

I'm not sure if I answered her out loud, but I walked in and sat down on the floor in my damp clothes with my back to a bookshelf. David watched me hesitantly, squeezing the cat to his chest. Jody came in after me and sat down too. There was an awkward silence in that since I came in, and after watching them I had a question, so I broke the ice. "How do you two get along so well?"

David remained silent as usual despite seeming like he had something to tell me and Jody answered for him. "You learn to get along with the people you need," she said.

This sat with me for a while. The people we need. That was an interesting philosophy. Does she think we all need people? But that would mean we were all weak. That didn't make sense to me. "No, not all people need people, some are fine on their own. Those are strong people. Needing and helping others is dependency, a weakness." 

Jody appeared to find that funny, I didn't know why, then she started talking. "I don't think it's a bad thing to help and need people, the strongest people need a hand every now and then." Her big eyes shifted to David, snuggling the fur ball to his chest. "And the youngest need it the most. I take care of David, David takes care of Daisy. And David and Daisy together take care of me as best they can."

She lost me for a moment. As far as I know I only had two kids. "Who's Daisy?" I asked. 

Jody ran her fingers through the cat's thick grey fur. "She's Daisy, mama. Daisy taught us all that about helping others.

She got her ways of thinking from a cat, and yet they sounded logical. Her words were in every way the opposite of what I'd been telling myself my whole life. 

"Mama, I think now that daddy is gone, you'd be happier if you let us take care of you? It's hard for him to do it from all the way up above our heads."    

That hurt to hear. 'Daddy' they still remembered Nel, and as their father. Daddy was a phrase no one in my house had muttered since he died. I felt tears rolling down cheeks, my face getting kinda hot. I tried to wipe them away with little success. "I didn't need Nel. I'm not weak." 

"Oh no, of course not! You're not weak." Jody told me, a mother's instinct in her voice. But she was only a child, my child. I'm supposed to be the mother, right? Why was this not me? I was the child and the adult but not the mother. I was never the mother. "Needing every now and then isn't a weakness I'd say. It's living. Without it, you might as well not be alive at all."

With her sweet, wise words the world made sense to me. What I needed to be alive, to be happy; it was a family. 

I started living that day.

Sealed: A Short-Short Story

Walking down streets of gum-melted sidewalks, the August heat beading sweat on foreheads and in underarms. He was quiet man, his blazer buttoned tight to conceal an envelope containing the information he gathered while working in Bolivia, his back going straight and his shoulders up every time a passerby said "good morning". He could not trust anyone, they could not discover too much about him, nor could he not give away too much about himself either.

He lived in a world of secrets. His job in foreign espionage was a secret. His nameless government employers that "technically don't exist" were a secret. His level X clearance, higher than the Vice President's was a secret. His address of 154 Brooks Street, Callowmine, New Jersey? Secret. That he would meet co-agents at Ginny's Cafe two blocks from his house? Secret. That he would spend hours and days and weeks away from home pretending to be people he's not in life threatening places? Secret.

Trying your best to exist when you barely have proof, was nearly impossible. He looked around himself, the streets filled with people going places, living their normal lives enjoying their normal worlds. In comparison he was a god amongst men, a shell of a man pieced together by the souls of a thousand men, as many as he saw before him, but it was all a secret.

Secrets, secrets, secrets, one after the other. To have to grip the fact you have killed people for a payroll and your wife believes you would not hurt a fly. To be constantly reminded that your kids cannot answer their teacher when asked their father's occupation which is controlling . To forever watch your words and hold your tongue when asked simple questions. His name Richard Feldman Boyer nicknamed "Rick" is a secret. His age of thirty-five is a secret. His light brown hair, bluish grey eyes, and sharp edged jawline is a secret. His lips always sealed like the documents in his bag about illegal currency trade and Russian assets and moles. The rest will never know, the rest will never know. So many secrets in his mind, their contents only to ever be existent to him.

At least that's what he thinks. 

I'm Just Rachel: A Self Deprication Essay

What is the problem with being me? Well to be frank, its all of the problems with being me, combined. So many. I mean, sure my life is not horrible or anything, but sometimes even basic things are near impossible. For example, what you are about to read is an all around accurate representation of me battle my greatest enemy; homework.

I opened my accordion folder and took out my homework for the night; a few math problems and a short paper to read and highlight. Not very much I had to do, luckily. I pulled I pencil from the side of my backpack and commenced writing the first problem. f(g(x-1))=... On second thought, I said to myself, I'll get to this later. Besides, it's only 2:45! I practically just got home!

So I swapped over to the document I was given. It was a translated version of the French constitution from their first revolution; the big one with the decapitating of heads and all. I read the first sentence, or started it because that one sentence was the size of a decent paragraph, when I started feeling sleepy. Well, this is unfortunate timing. I stared at the paper for five minutes, struggling to keep my flickering eyelids open. By the time I finished reading it, I realized I had no memory of what I was actually reading. I was thinking about staying awake and reading at the same time. In a sense the words went in one ear and out the other. No wait, that does not make sense because I read them, so they went in one eye and out the oth-? Never mind. In short, I had to read it again, and actually pay attention. I was trying once more when my brother Jack got home.

"Hey, Rach!" He hollered up the stairs.

"Sup, little man!" I called back.

He was small, freckle faced boy with big ears and hipster glasses. He is the kind of person you never forget meeting, for better or worse, you will always remember him.

I hear his beaten sneakers treading up the stairs to my room. The door jerks open with its familiar squeak that drives up a wall. "I gotta tell you about this comic I'm writing," he begins, a crooked-toothed grin plastered to his face.

"Cool, buddy! But could you come back to me on that? I've got some homework." Honestly though, I wanted him to stay. I love talking to my brother, he's always there to cheer me up when I need it. He's my bro, in both meanings of the word.

Jack pushes his frames higher up his nose. "Don't worry it's quick," he assures me. His stories are never quick; the only part of him that is quick are his feet. But before I can respond, he's already off telling it.

There he went, explaining with mind-boggling detail of one of his favorite topics; the Justice League of America. Every part, every piece of his story he could pull off the top his head, characters, scenes, lines, action sequences and fighting mechanisms, even the specific types of weapons used. I can't even remember the five digit code to get in my own garage, yet somehow we are apparently related. Anyhow, to summarize, the entire elaborate story ended with an Aquaman joke and frustrated Batman, because Aquaman is a joke and Batman hates everyone in the Justice League, so it's fitting. The reason I understand all of this, is because I like super heroes as well. Yes, it is nerdy of me, I know. I get it. Now he had me sucked in to a conversation.

"Why do they even keep Aquaman around anymore?" I asked, but slightly rhetorically. "He's never helpful. He can't even control water! Just fish! It's sad, really."

"I know!" Jack agreed. "Maybe Superman's just too much of a goody goody to get rid 'em."

I laughed. "That wouldn't surprise me."

"Oh, and check this out," he said. Jack then jumped into the Darth Sideous impression he had been perfecting over the past few days. He cleared his throat. "Bring me Luke SKYWALKER! And Hans SOLO!... Eh, got no tang. Just bring me SKYWALKER! Luke SKYYYYWALKER! HAHAHA! Sounds WONDERFUL with my raspy evil voice!" He went into a second evil laugh then broke into a coughing fit.

I applauded him. "Bravo! You impressions getting better by the day!"

It was then I suddenly realized I wasn't getting anything done. "Eh hem, Jack?" I interrupted. "I forgot, I'm supposed to be working."

"Well, why didn't you tell me that?!" he yammered at me and walked out.

I sat there puzzled by his remark. "I- I did," a answered aloud, though I had not yelled it for him to hear, he would not have listened then either.

After the little visit was over, I checked the clock. Well there goes a half n' hour. I should probably get back to work.

I finished re-reading and highlighting by this point, now I just had to write about it. Oh no. Something, a bug perhaps, zooming around and buzzing my head. I hate things I can hear but cannot see, I would make a very bad blind person. I swat and dodge it as the insect darts by me. Then it stops and lands on my chair. A fly.

For reasons unknown to even myself, I find flies the most easily to loath of all creatures in existence. Maybe it's the germs they carry or how annoying they are or maybe both, but all I know is that no fly leaves my house alive.

I put my paper down slowly, inching towards the swatter conveniently located behind my desk. I pick it up gingerly, my eyes still locked on the fly. Every ounce of my energy was suddenly focused on that one thing. The fly took a landing on my wall.

I leaned in close, but not too close. Flies have 360 degree slow motion vision, if they think (well technically know) I am a predator, they will fly away. Raising my left arm, I swung. "Smile, you son of a-!" I missed. "Ugh!That would have been so cool! Doing that to the Jaws line!"

It landed some seconds later. I chose another reference. "For Narnia!" I missed again. "Dang it!"

And again. "Hasta lavista, baby." Another miss. "Oh, come on!"

And again. "I'm gonna do it for Johnny! Doin' it for Johnny!" Swing and miss. "No! Bad! Stop that!"

All the attempts were failing ones, but now I was positive I would be victorious. "I know what you're thinking, did I swat five times or six. But I gotta ask you, do you feel lucky? Well, do ya', punk?" And this time I was just about to kill it, my arm was in perfect position for the blow, this fly could not escape me now. However I did not swat the fly because it landed on my pillow case, and I could never bring myself to even tempt the fate of fly guts upon my pillow. My pillow is place I rest my head, even if cleaned would still let me question that my pillow was not cleaned right and fly tissue is that directly close to my face. I cannot physically allow it. I cannot, and I have no answer as to why. So with a growl of sheer frustration, I reluctantly lowered my swatter. "I hate you," rolls off my tongue the way it does when Yosemite Sam says it to Bugs Bunny. This is what my life has come to. I've been beaten by a fly.

Soon enough the fly and I made a mutual pact, leaving each other alone for the rest if the night, and I got back to work. Where I last left off only the first sentence was written, the rest of it actually required thinking too. I thought long and hard about what to write, some ideas breezed through my mind, but I did mot care much for them and they were dismissed. One thoughtless to another and another and another until my work was completely forgotten.

I have so many split ends, god do I need a haircut! Just look at all of these, look at them all. Yuck.

What day is it today? Tuesday? I have a test Friday, and it's bio.

How did I even stay in honors for math all three years of middle school? Especially in sixth grade. It should have been absolutely impossible for that to have happened, but yet here I am.

I can't believe I'm in high school now. That means in four years I'll be in college... OH MY GOD. THAT IS NOT OKAY. NOT OKAY. NOPE. NUH-UH.

In the end, what is going to become of me? What will I actually do with my life? What is the purpose of life? Why do we have it? What is its purpose in the universe? And why do I ask so many unanswerable questions WHEN I'M SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME TODAY?!

I made a deep, long sigh and glanced at the clock; 4:57. You've got to be kidding me.

"Why is this taking me so long! It shouldn't take me so long! It's not that hard! Why!? I do not understand! Well I have ADD so that probably doesn't help but, still! Still! Am I even gonna have this finished by tomorrow? What if I don't!? It's too early in the school year to not have my homework! I'm not gonna have enough time! And yelling at myself now is only wasting it! Ugh! I gonna start pacing my room! But I'm still wasting time! Then shut up! But I can't shut up 'cause I'm freaking out here! Oh, the viscous cycle! Oh, the humanity! THE HUMANITY!!"

"Rachel, who are you talking to!?" my mother yelled across the hall. I had not noticed when she got home.

"...Myself." I also had not noticed how loud I must had been.

"Well maybe could you do not as loudly? I thought you were being murdered or something!"

"...Sorry." I loud whispered.

Talking to myself was a subconscious habit. I rarely take notice when it happens, this was one of those not as rare times, unfortunately.

It was now 5:30, and I was on the verge of raising the white flag. I was so fed up with myself, I almost did not want to try anymore. I made my way downstairs, dragging a small hand stitched blanket with me. Heh, no wonder why my parents call me Linus from the Peanut Gang. I sulked to the living room, my tired eyes half-closed when I saw my dad. He was still in his suit, must have just gotten home from work. "Daaaad!" I not-so cheerfully greeted, lacking the general presence of happiness or even flat out content. The poor man just wants to get home and have nothing to worry about, that never works out though. "I can't focus for the life of me. Barely any of it is done and I just can't concentrate. I don't know what to do."

He twisted his mouth as he thought, then he asked me; "What classes do you have homework in?"

"Math is G block at the end of the day after that twenty minute free work period, and History is F block so I have it only on even days."

"And what day was today?"

"Day 2," I told him.

My father grinned. "Then you do your history tomorrow because it's not due 'till Thursday, and save the math to do in that weird work period you have."

I stared at him blankly in amazement. The answer was so simple, so clear, it had staring me in the face this whole time. I wasted all this time on ultimately nothing. "Oh, yeah," I said wanting smack myself out of my own idiocy. "I feel so stupid, Dad."

"You're not stupid, honey," he said, a sweet honest smile on his face, "you're just Rachel."