A Decade Of Distress, Reminiscence, And Respect (We Remember)

  Isn't it amazing how our long term memory works? I bet you that you can't remember what you were doing ten days ago, let alone ten hours ago, but ten years ago? I guarantee you that most of you can recall that like it happened seconds ago, at least to a certain point. It's a common question that we all get to answer: "Where were you the day of 9/11 when you heard the news?" and often we like to recap it. We like to tear it out of our memory, dress it all nice and pretty, and present it with some detailed description of our own accurate account. Our memory is a brilliant thing. The fact that we can recall this event because it was so HUGE is just, brilliant. But this is not about our memory. This is about the reflection, about our respect, and about honoring those who died.

  I'm just honestly blown away by the fact that it's already been ten whole years. I, though the memory is faint because I was but a little lad, will give you what I remember about that day. And in doing so, I hope to hear your recap on this tragic day that we will forever hold dearly in our hearts.

  Ten years ago, a ten year old boy I was. And an egocentric little boy at that (like every little kid). I was wearing my dark blue pants and a required, tucked-in collared shirt of some color, with the words "Redeemer Christian School" imprinted on the left breast. The school uniform. I was in my 5th grade class when the principal walked in and asked the teacher to step outside for a few seconds. Except, my teacher didn't step fully outside of the classroom. She did that thing where half of her body was still in the classroom and half of it was in the hallway. This pretty much implied, "Hey class, while yes I am currently speaking outside, I am still physically in here as well." So the entire classroom went quiet. We weren't sure what was going on. In fact, we didn't want to talk anyways. We wanted to listen and hear what was going on. We are all confused. Usually they would call you down from the loud speaker to the principal's office if someone was in trouble. But this time the principal physically came up to our room. Was she, our teacher, in trouble? Were we in trouble? Did something happen in the school? We tried listening, but all we could hear were muffled words here-or-there, a pitch entirely too low to make out. But the way they were talking, the harsh staccato whispers, the body language, it all spoke for itself. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
  She stepped back into the classroom, and our hearts began beating rapidly. There was something in her eyes. A different color perhaps, like a shade of gray that we had never seen before. Her face had gone completely pale. Our nerves were on fire, at least, mine were.
  She looked up at us, forcing a smile to her face to not show vulnerability. "Well class, that will be it for today." We've called your parents and they are on their way to come pick you all up." We looked at her like she was crazy. The day practically just started. We were excited and yet nervous at the same time.
  Someone gathered the strength and asked her, "Why? What happened?"
  She looked down to avoid the gaze from our eyes, "That I can't answer, students. That is for your parents to answer as they please. For now, let us sit in silence." So we sat there, apprehension coursing through our veins. What could be so bad that even she, our teacher, couldn't explain?
  I sat there, looking around. Shaking vigorously, because I've always been a worried spaz. I was so scared. I thought I had done something wrong so we were all being sent home to be punished, because like I said, I was very egocentric. The world revolved around me. I was too young to understand and too self-centered to realize this had nothing to do with me. It had nothing to do with the class.
  Silence surrounded the classroom. No one talked, no one spoke. Everyone just sat there making up stories in our brains of what could have happened. Then the parents came.
  I remember it precisely. The parents gathering us in the gym. I saw my mother -- my brother already by her side -- and there was a look in her eyes. Fear I'm guessing, and maybe thankfulness that my brother and I were all right.
  "Mommy," I started, "what's going on? Why are they sending us home?"
  She looked at me, unsure how to answer it. "Just wait till we get to the van. I'll explain there."
  That's it. I did something wrong. I knew it, I could just tell. It was the way she said it. Her articulation spoke for itself. I was in trouble. She wanted to scream at me in the van. But what did I do?
  We got into the van, and she drove towards our home in silence. No radio. No screaming. Just her uneven breaths and this deafening silence. But it wasn't just that. It seemed like there was a silence of some sort running through the streets. It hung dead in the air for all to see and notice. Through the trees that shivered in the wind. Through every home that held families gathered around. It was there, and it was terrifying.
  "So today something happened," she began. "While you were in class a plane crashed into of the world trade center towers in New York City. A little bit later another one crashed into the other tower. They are saying that this was a terrorist attack. Every news station on Television is airing everything. A lot of people are dying and have died already.
  "They shut down every Federal Building and every airport is being closed. No planes are allowed to take off."
  "But what about Dad? Isn't he supposed to come home today? We're supposed to go over to his house this weekend."
  "Yes, but he hasn't taken off yet. He is still stuck in Louisiana [Don't quote me on that, could have been somewhere else.] until further notice. You can call him when we get home."
   So we did. He told us that everything was all right, that he was fine, that he would be home whenever he could.
   Then we turned on the news. I remember sitting at the Dining room table, ten whole years ago, doing my math and social studies homework, but barely being able to concentrate on it. I was watching the news. Watching the Trade Centers crumble, feeling hope start to crumble. I remember being so full of interest and fear and confusion, that I just put my homework to the side. I joined my brother in the family room and watched the planes crashing into the building. All that smoke. All that fire. The buildings falling. All that debris. The screams from the people inside and from below. The fear in the reporters' voices, trembling. America was terrified. And through all that noise, confusion, and smoke, we were all silent. Happy to be alive, protected by the safety of our families. Protected by the safety of God. Silent.

  I remember my mom asking me if I had my homework done and I just sat there, too scared and confused to do my homework.

  And I remember the next day after. The halls were silent, every conversation was at a low whisper. Everyone avoided each other's eyes. We all were in disbelief, fearing for what may come next. The teacher in stead of teaching us a lesson, had a discussion about what had happened.
  Hope seemed lost. America seemed to be coming down with those towers, at least our morale was. But hope wasn't lost, and America was not crumbling at the seams. We stood taller after that, higher than the towers ever stood. We sang songs, and still do, honoring those who lost their lives. Chills may run through our bones now, but it is not out of fear, it is out of respect. To the innocent who lost their lives, this ones for you. To the firefighters that braved the storm, climbed the tower to save innocent lives knowing they were probably going to die, this ones for you. We were not defeated, no, we were merely awakened. So this blog is written for all of those who do remember. All of those who have a story. What is your story? Where were you when the twin towers fell?
  Do not give up hope, my friends. The world is sad and times are tough, yes, but you need to have hope.

"Everything is gonna be alright. Be strong, believe"  - Yellowcard "Believe"




So I leave you with a video from my youth. A song that kept me strong, helped me stay believing that we could defeat terrorism. A song that helped me believe in myself as well. It was written after September 11th, and it was track number 11 on the album. I remember listening to it on repeat multiple times, listening to the beautiful melody and the powerful lyrics.

stow away then burn at your funeral pyre

this place grows dead with
rotting tongues that spew fire and
burn down bridges that
souls may never rest on (ever again):

a wasteland for the broken,
a suburbia for the sick

you call yourself gentle
servants? your hearts are made
of ice, your eyes of ash
from the dead:

soon you shall join them in
their quest, oh wanderers

you can spread your disastrous
disease, but plagues
will reign down from the scorns
of heaven, scorching
all flowers in bloom with the
seeds that were sown by

these fools of folly: your minds
deceive your heart. you're cunning
craftsman

but lovers you will never be  

Even Slender Man Likes Punctuation (Journal Entry 1 [college writing 2 prompt])

My professor assigned my class this writing prompt that I found very exciting and quite interesting. I want to post on here my prompt so you may see into my head and appreciate the beauty of sentence structure. Then I want everyone of you to do something. I want you to do it yourself. Challenge yourself. Open up your mind, expand your creativity with flexible rubber-band-like depth. Go beyond what you can normally do and try this prompt out. It definitely is challenging and a little hard, but it definitely gets your creative juices flowing. So please, if you will, leave in a comment your entry. I want to read all of them. Here are the rules that my professor assigned:

Rules: Write one paragraph, maximum of three sentences, using these 13 punctuation marks: apostrophe, brackets, colon, comma, dash, ellipsis, exclamation point, hyphen, parentheses, period, question mark, quotation mark, and semicolon. You may use a punctuation mark more than once.




My entry:


He stood, towering like a tree – that damn devilish fiend, no friend but foe; “Slender Man” was what they were calling him – staring with his pale, porcelain face into my soul . . . he was eyeless. From the get-go I knew I must’ve been marked (but why? [Slender Man always, ALWAYS had reasons!]), and I didn’t know how I could survive this creature and his psychological haunting: cryptic, elusive, ambiguous. He wore a dark suit, the night concealing his presence, the trees taking him as their own; I blinked, and I was alone.

Writer's Block

my thoughts hang in
the gallows,
suppressed by what was
and what will never be

shadows stretch across the
horizon of my
imagination obscuring
my vision

love, let’s cry

through
loveless eyes

tomorrow won’t be better

filled with an
empty embodiment
inside

words, they can’t
escape
clouded in billows
of smoke,

my ruins,

my thoughts

dead

HAUNTED - Chapter 1 (A short, creative non-fiction series of events)

HAUNTED

All the events depicted in this are VERY true.

Chapter 1: Bloody Mary

            1997, in the dungeon of an old Lutheran church, four boys huddled in a dark corner of the bathroom, and I was one of them. It was early morning, sometime in the weekday. We were all just little boys then—second graders. We all attended this church/school, which lasted from pre-k to eighth grade.

            The four of us—Zach Carley, Devin Burnside, Matt Francis, and myself—slipped out of the early morning Day Care called Child Watch and snuck ourselves through the dark, unlit kitchen into the bathroom. Mind you, going in through the kitchen and bathroom without permission was extremely forbidden. (“OFF LIMITS WITHOUT ASKING FIRST.”) That was surely to earn you a time-out, a slap on the wrist, or worse… time in the principle’s office.
            It was rather easy for us to slip out since one lady had to keep an eye on about 50 kids. So when four boys disappeared from a table chock full of kids playing Domino Rally, ducking behind the kitchen counter, and crawling their way into the bathroom, it was like no one disappeared. Well, at least not yet. Hopefully.

            The memory is feint, but I know I was scared. That much I can remember…or am willing to recall.

            “Come on, Kevin, don’t be such a wuss,” snickered the four-eyed, shaggy, dark brown hair, Zach Carley. “It’s only just a stupid myth.”

            “All right, fine. But don’t tell my mommy about this. She’ll make me count to over 500 on the stupid steps again if she finds out. Last time I was there for over an hour.” They all snickered at this, and I shrugged my shoulders oblivious to why they were laughing.
            Devin Burnside – a brown haired, brown-eyed, one-month-younger-than-me (to the date) boy – extinguished the light. I squished my way closer to them, huddling in their personal space, not caring about the Kevin-likes-men comment I’d soon get after that. I didn’t care; I was terrified. We all were.
            It felt like that moment where you’re sitting in your room in the middle of night, terrified of the raging storm that’s keeping you awake. The thunder’s roaring, the raindrops are pelting your window, and the lightning keeps cutting through the darkness with bright bolts of electricity. So you turn on your lamp to feel safe, but then the power goes out. And it’s not just that vivid darkness creeping over your eyes that scares you. It’s that noise the power makes when it turns off. The shutting down of every conscious perception of safety. That’s the noise I heard when Devin flicked the switch off. The powering down of my heart.

            Matt Francis – the light brown, dim-witted (when it came to school) ladies man even as a boy – was the leader of our expedition, this crucial crusade. Matt, the eldest of the four of us, told us briefly what we were supposed to do. He stood to my right, Zach to my left, and Devin to his left. My pupils were starting to adjust; it had been well over a minute. We were so close to the mirror that our noses were almost touching the glass and our breath was fogging it up.
            “Y-you guys ready?” Matt asked loudly, trying to be as stern as possible failing to hide the fear in his shaky voice. It had been two minutes.

            “Yes,” we responded simultaneously.

            “Okay, then. On the count of three we will begin.” My heart was starting to pound recklessly at this point. I could feel myself starting to shake, convulsing in a fear-elapsed panic.

            “One.” Shiver down my spine.

            “Two.” Sweat dripping from my brow.

            “Three.” Gulp.

            At the top of our lungs we all bellowed in unison, “BLOODY MARY! BLOODY MARY! BLOODY MARY!” We chanted, screamed about 20 times. And that’s when things got real…

* * *

            I’m a little boy. I’m a second grader. My neighbor, Josh Zivny – whom is one year older – is over with his dog, Annie. She’s a beautiful golden retriever. Adam – my 13 month younger brother – and Josh and I are all sitting in my family room looking out at the deck. The screen door is open and our feet are hanging out of it, planted on the polished wood. The stars and moon are hidden behind the dark, grey clouds. It’s blacker than black outside. Darker than dark.
            Josh is over because his parents and my parents are all out doing something. So us three are stuck here dog watching. Alone.
            The only light on in the house is coming from the Television to our left. It’s at a very dim-lit brightness and a low volume. The silence is quite deafening, to be honest. We’re all talking in hushed whispers as if we’re trying to listen. As if something is listening to us.
            We hear a rustle in the distance. Even the trees are shivering. The TV starts to flicker off, then on, then off again. For a moment we’re completely consumed in darkness. It turns on again. We all freak out, shivering out of our skin with bone-rattling terror. Josh, still sitting next to us, asks where Annie went. I didn’t even notice she disappeared.
            “Annie!” we all call out. No reply. We call her name again. Josh walks out of the room into the other dark corners of the house looking for her.
            “There she is!” I manage to gasp out, jabbing out my index finger toward a silhouette of a dog. She is walking up the steps of the deck, staring deathly at me in the eyes. “Josh, she’s out here.” I step out into the night, feeling a sudden chill run down my spine. Goosebumps. The lurking darkness fiends it’s way into blue eyes, into my soul.

            I step forward reaching my hand out toward Annie. But something’s wrong about her… different. It’s her, definitely her. The same shaggy, golden brown hair. The same long tongue hanging from her mouth. But there is something about her eyes that throws me off guard.
            “Annie, come here.” She doesn’t budge. I step closer. She remains petrified, frozen in her tracks. I approach closer now, inching my way forward. My hand is out, whether to pet her or for my own protection, I know not.
            “GRRRR!” She starts growling viciously. I take one step back, remembering my fear of dogs.
            “Josh, come get your dog!” I yell now, scared and angry. The boyish me just wants to run away and never look back…or to shoot the damn dog.
            “What are you talking about?” Josh’s voice appears feint, muffled by the walls of the house. He must be in a different room. He continues, his voice getting loud and closer, “Annie is right here, Kev…” His sentence cuts off as he appears at the doorway looking out at this dog. Annie, calm and reverent, is at his feet.
            RUFF. RUFF. RUFF. Annie starts barking wildly. Fear erupts my eyes, my heart shattering to fragments. I turn back around to face my foe.
            The eyes. Those damn eyes are red. She growls again, this time in my face, barking back at Annie. I could see her teeth now. Sharp razors. And then I see her.
            A little girl. White dress; dark, curly black hair. Pale skin, paler than the moonlight. About 10 years old. She has black eyes. She is grinning, petting the replica. A damn hellhound. There is menace in her little black eyes.
            The hellhound barks this time louder. I notice now the distinct difference between the two. The size – twice of Annie’s; the smell – of death, decay. She’s a monster, salivating with a hungry look in her eyes. This time, shining her razor-sharp pearly whites at me, she begins to bite down deep, piercing into my flesh. The little girl laughs as a blood-curling scream evokes from my lungs.
            Blood is splattering, staining the mouth of the beast. I’m screaming bloody murder, and I can feel my bones crunching, breaking. My limbs are being ripped out, licked clean. My screams echo through the night.
           

* * *

Catch The Golden Bug

Catch the golden bug
that floats in your eyes, spinning
webs throughout your mind

Can you see the sun
cascading off of the lake,
setting in your heart?

We all see beauty
within that vibrant color
of the brand new night

Can you see what I
see? Oh dear goddess of love,
this night is now ours

The blue moon rises
full in shape and the color
of your pretty dress

And flies of fire
burn bulbs of orange and yellow
and gold in our hands

Let us set them free
so Night may capture one, and
catch the golden bug.

"Good Fences Make Good Neighbors"

I want you to do something. Something that you probably haven’t done in a long, long time. Maybe it’s something you haven’t even had time to do. Or choose not to do. But let me tell you, this certain “something” is definitely something to take note of, to acknowledge:
            think back to when you were still a little lad, full of youth, innocent, carefree. Do you remember those times at all? Pull open the curtains of your memory and break down the walls of your past. Peel away the scabs and think back. Do you remember (can you even remember, ya old farts?)? Think back to when your youth was a charismatic as success is to you now. Nothing could bring you down. Nothing. And when something did, you got right back up. You dusted off your shoulders [because, you know, you were a pimp even back then] and put on a band-aid and kept on running. You were an adventurer, a carefree spirit. You were a fighter, a warrior. Stronger than you are now or will ever be. You know why? Because of innocence, of ignorance. Never mind the cuts, the scrapes, and blood that adorned your flesh.
            Life itself was liberating. You were free, and you didn’t even know it. There was absolutely nothing you had to worry about. Well, besides sneaking a piece of candy or a cookie before dinner and NOT getting caught. (Like that one time when you* were four and found Smarties on the counter. So you grabbed it and swooped yourself underneath the table in hopes that no one would find you. Because back then, when you hid underneath the table, the world around you was hidden from your view. Therefore, in your mind, the world’s view of you was hidden. Under that table you were a recluse. It was you, the table, and those Smarties. So you hid, and poured all of those Smarties into your mouth. Not one by one, but full on shoved them down your throat. Until your dad walked past and asked what you were doing under there. And do you remember your response? You sat there, gawking innocently, chewing and replied, “Nomphim.” And even though your dad sold you out, it was all right. Sure, you had to sit in time out and count to 300, but that was all right. You had achieved what you wanted to do! You had consumed those Smarties before dinner, and neither your father nor your mother could take that away from you. You had won. Beat the system. Game. Set. Match.)
            Now think to those summer days and nights that you so desperately clung on to as a kid. Rain nor shine stopped you from living your summer outdoors. Remember all those times? Playing kickball on the street with your entire neighborhood. Backyard baseball. Playing army and cops and robbers and hide-n-go-seek. Back then there were no cliques and groups. It was just the summer, your friends, and the outdoors. Everything was how it should have been. It was actually a reward to stay out late with your friends and catch lightning bugs, or have bonfires, or run around your yard like a lunatic. When your mom called you in you would beg for ten more minutes, just ten more minutes. And maybe, every now and then, she would abide. Because, after all, she was in love - unconditionally - with you and your innocence. So you would run around the block. You would shoot up some hoops. You would play some baseball. You would play kickball. You would even play those old school games lit Tag, Red Rover, etc. You would lay on the grass and stare up at the clouds, saying what each one looked like. And when night swung around you would collect the fireflies in jars and have bonfires and s’mores. With all of your neighbors. Because neighborhoods were neighborhoods back then. Not strangerhoods. Neighbors were neighbors, not strangers. People were intimate with one another. Not attached to their phones, computers, and videogames. Do you remember that at all?
            As a kid you couldn’t escape the outdoors except when it rained. Scratch that. Except when it stormed, and even then you would pull up a lawn chair and sit in the garage and watch with your neighbor who you’ve known your entire life. You would take turns commentating on the storm like you were weathermen, like you were Dick Goddard or something. Just a really, really young version of Dick Goddard. [I wonder if he can even remember back this far?]
            There were exceptions, of course, when you would be inside. Like when that one kid down the street—whom you didn’t like, whom irked you for some, strange reason—wanted to hang with you and your brother. So you and your brother had a certain process that you set up. A plan. Whenever he showed up, your brother would take turns switching off, where one of you would go inside very quickly and come back out within seconds saying, “Hey, we can’t hang out right now because our mom is calling us in for dinner.” You would say that even at two in the afternoon. Of course, that neighbor surprisingly never caught on, which was good. But for the most part, you were always outside. Computer games could wait. Television could wait. It was all about the neighborhood, the weather, and the good old times. The summer was yours.
            Now I wanted you to do something else. Pull open the curtains and what do you see?

 Nothing. No kids playing kickball. No kids shooting hoops. No kids biking. In fact, there is rarely any kids at all. Everyone is inside. Eating. Consuming not just Smarties, but cookies, and chips, and fast food. People are inside texting. People are inside playing video games. Kids are addicted to XBOX. Their social lives revolve around XBOX LIVE. There is no more outdoor activities. Bonfires are low in count. Barbeques and Block Parties are non-existent. Everyone is scare of each other. Scared to know their own neighbor. There was a time when everyone used to know each other. But now you probably don’t even recognize half of the people that live on your street. Neighbors are now strangers. Kids are no longer kids, but lazy, spoiled brats.
            Why is this? Let me know your thoughts. Give me some insight on this tragedy. Let me know why this is even acceptable. Why aren’t parents limiting video game play anymore? Why aren’t kids begging to be outside more? Why do kids spend most of their time playing video games? Don’t they know they can get exactly what they get out of a video game AND more by reading a book outdoors? Who cares if you have ADD or ADHD. I have ADHD/ADD. That’s no excuse.
               I wish I was still a kid sometimes. Why can't kids be kids? Why can't they go outside and enjoy their lives? KIDS, this is for you (of all ages), get off of your butts and go live your life! You were blessed with two legs and feet, so use those gifts! Before it's too late. Soon enough you will be an adult and won't have time to go outside. Stop lazying it up inside when you can be outside having just as much fun, except that it will be healthier. Go live your life!

            Let me know some of your thoughts on this. Thanks for reading.

____________________________________________________________________________
* - the subject YOU here represents everyone in general (you and me).