I cut my friends list, nothing personal, just deleted people I never talk to.
*****************************************************
I think the last time I posted any of this exponentially growing trainwreck of a story, it was page 3.
Well, here's page 94 for that ass....
[When I was seven years old, we moved to a new town, to a new school, to new things that kept me up late nights.] I was a pillar of ashes that sat, sleep deprived, at recess, reading books to stay awake and to avoid the strange kaleidoscope of unfamiliar faces.
"Kate, sweetie, why don't you play with your new classmates? You can save your reader for silent reading time after lunch."
Elementary school teacher's voice. Her fake smile screamed with pity. Her sugary, mock-concerned voice was the patronizing little survival tool she stuck in her belt as she learned how to teach.
"Okay Mrs. Mallory. I'll go play handball for awhile", I said anyway.
But, the other, silent voice protested.
"Why don't you go play, dopey, babytalking Mrs. Mallory? Or else why don't I kick you in your saggy nyloned shins so you'll leave me alone?"
I sat, crosslegged, on the tiled bathroom floor and said to myself, "Someday the sun, like all stars in our galaxy, will die. The Earth will no longer be able to support life."
I quoted 'Science Fun Facts', so I knew it was true. None of this mattered anyway, because some day, it would all just go black. And nobody would remember.
At this new school, the 3nd graders and the 1st graders had different times to eat their lunches. They weren't stacked on top of each other like before.
[My sister] Emelia and I rarely did anything seperately. She seldomly spoke to anyone but me. I ordered her food at restaraunts, told my mom when she needed to go to the bathroom and I knew all the secrets.
I knew the secret language of sisters, with matching freckle-interrupted honey eyes and matching chlorine-smelling hazy memories of a summer together and then a schoolyear apart.
Emelia was forever lists, number and order. She liked to figure things out. By seven years she could tye-dye shirts and underpants and socks. One color or two. She cut colorful tights in half, sewing blue leg onto pink leg. She lived for the days that she could wear her slick, yellow galoshes and twin, knee length coat.
We used to spend Saturday mornings sprawled across our mother's duvet, dressed in her black Ferragamos and silk-lined chinchilla shrugs. Emelia would twist and shift her hips in the mirror, contemplating the colors and the folds. With serious eyes, she was consumed by freshwater pearl strands and Chanel brooches.
Her intense fascination with clothes and belts and jewelry, her eye for color and her attention to detail were often remarked upon. Sometimes people would say that maybe she would be a designer some day.
But, they were wrong. I knew what she would someday be. She told me, in one of those times where no one but us was there to hear.
"When I grow up, I want to be a bus driver. Or else, marry Dennis the Menace."
I also knew why she danced. Every Tuesday, we danced ballet for two, long sweaty hours. Emelia hated every note, every step. She gritted her teeth against the sweat and the hard knots on her toes.
I knew without knowing and she said without saying. My sister danced for the black leotard and the soft contrast of pink tights. She danced for suede, rose toe shoes and for her delicate tutu.
She was the one who made me not alone.
At school, I ached for her. I half smiled as I remembered the night before.
We had sprawled across the sofa, facing each other, ankles intertwined, matching toes on matching toes.
Emelia was making a list,the way she usually did. She looked up and watched a silent, silver airplane swim through the afternoon overhead.
"You know what makes me sad?", she said softly.
"The people in that airplane don't know that I'm wearing my sailor suit dress with my red ascot."
It was pieces of her that made me want to see the world through Emelia-colored glasses.
Pained by the tragic beauty of her dresses and sad for those who wouldn't get to see them.
I stuck my foot up that sailor suit dress and poked my big toe into her stomach.
"Nobody cares about your dress. Or your silly old scarf", I teased.
She was already back to making tally marks on her list. "It's an ascot", she reminded.
Then she was quiet. Usually she was quiet.
*****************************************************
I think the last time I posted any of this exponentially growing trainwreck of a story, it was page 3.
Well, here's page 94 for that ass....
[When I was seven years old, we moved to a new town, to a new school, to new things that kept me up late nights.] I was a pillar of ashes that sat, sleep deprived, at recess, reading books to stay awake and to avoid the strange kaleidoscope of unfamiliar faces.
"Kate, sweetie, why don't you play with your new classmates? You can save your reader for silent reading time after lunch."
Elementary school teacher's voice. Her fake smile screamed with pity. Her sugary, mock-concerned voice was the patronizing little survival tool she stuck in her belt as she learned how to teach.
"Okay Mrs. Mallory. I'll go play handball for awhile", I said anyway.
But, the other, silent voice protested.
"Why don't you go play, dopey, babytalking Mrs. Mallory? Or else why don't I kick you in your saggy nyloned shins so you'll leave me alone?"
I sat, crosslegged, on the tiled bathroom floor and said to myself, "Someday the sun, like all stars in our galaxy, will die. The Earth will no longer be able to support life."
I quoted 'Science Fun Facts', so I knew it was true. None of this mattered anyway, because some day, it would all just go black. And nobody would remember.
At this new school, the 3nd graders and the 1st graders had different times to eat their lunches. They weren't stacked on top of each other like before.
[My sister] Emelia and I rarely did anything seperately. She seldomly spoke to anyone but me. I ordered her food at restaraunts, told my mom when she needed to go to the bathroom and I knew all the secrets.
I knew the secret language of sisters, with matching freckle-interrupted honey eyes and matching chlorine-smelling hazy memories of a summer together and then a schoolyear apart.
Emelia was forever lists, number and order. She liked to figure things out. By seven years she could tye-dye shirts and underpants and socks. One color or two. She cut colorful tights in half, sewing blue leg onto pink leg. She lived for the days that she could wear her slick, yellow galoshes and twin, knee length coat.
We used to spend Saturday mornings sprawled across our mother's duvet, dressed in her black Ferragamos and silk-lined chinchilla shrugs. Emelia would twist and shift her hips in the mirror, contemplating the colors and the folds. With serious eyes, she was consumed by freshwater pearl strands and Chanel brooches.
Her intense fascination with clothes and belts and jewelry, her eye for color and her attention to detail were often remarked upon. Sometimes people would say that maybe she would be a designer some day.
But, they were wrong. I knew what she would someday be. She told me, in one of those times where no one but us was there to hear.
"When I grow up, I want to be a bus driver. Or else, marry Dennis the Menace."
I also knew why she danced. Every Tuesday, we danced ballet for two, long sweaty hours. Emelia hated every note, every step. She gritted her teeth against the sweat and the hard knots on her toes.
I knew without knowing and she said without saying. My sister danced for the black leotard and the soft contrast of pink tights. She danced for suede, rose toe shoes and for her delicate tutu.
She was the one who made me not alone.
At school, I ached for her. I half smiled as I remembered the night before.
We had sprawled across the sofa, facing each other, ankles intertwined, matching toes on matching toes.
Emelia was making a list,the way she usually did. She looked up and watched a silent, silver airplane swim through the afternoon overhead.
"You know what makes me sad?", she said softly.
"The people in that airplane don't know that I'm wearing my sailor suit dress with my red ascot."
It was pieces of her that made me want to see the world through Emelia-colored glasses.
Pained by the tragic beauty of her dresses and sad for those who wouldn't get to see them.
I stuck my foot up that sailor suit dress and poked my big toe into her stomach.
"Nobody cares about your dress. Or your silly old scarf", I teased.
She was already back to making tally marks on her list. "It's an ascot", she reminded.
Then she was quiet. Usually she was quiet.
VIEW 25 of 37 COMMENTS
moralitydies:
my 1:05 membership expired 
dizzy:
i make my images 500 pixels wide. 