Inspiration?

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

"Well, here we are."

"Yes. Alone at last."

"Strange, isn't it? To be the only ones left?"

"Truly strange. Surreal almost."

"More like a Samuel Beckett play, I'd say."

"Wasn't he a surrealist?"

"Uh, I don't think so. Maybe. No. I have no idea. Could you pass the bacon bits?"

"What for?"

"I like to sprinkle them on my cantaloupe slices."

"Really? I like to eat my cantaloupe with a tall glass of chocolate milk."

"To each his own..."

"Said the old lady as she kissed the pig."

"I love it when you finish my sentences."

"And I love finishing them. It's a good thing we go so well together, being left here all alone like this. I thought an empty planet would be a lot more quiet."

"Me, too. Instead it sounds a bit like....I don't know...it's a constant buzzing."

"Not a buzzing. A sizzling. Like grease in a pan. That reminds me, you should turn over. You're stomach is getting burnt."

"Thanks. Would you mind putting some sunblock on my back?"

"Not at all my friend, not at all."

"I am really glad that it's you. If we had to be the last, I mean."

"Yeah. It's funny, really. You know I didn't really like you when we first met?"

And they shared a laugh then before lapsing into silence. The listened to the dying world around them, grease in a pan. The water rolled in from the west and the air smelled fresh like a beginning, ironic since it was so obviously the end. Earlier they had taken the notice of the ocean, blaoted with death. The leviathans of the deep had all floated to the surface and looked like tiny islands in the distance. The sun was at its zenith and as time had finally stopped, so it would remain.

"I heard the trumpets this morning, Will. I expected them to sound ominous but I could have sworn it was a Lee Morgan song being played; it was lovely.

"I felt an earthquake at dawn," smiled Testament, "and thought the whole world was a waltz. It was lovely, too."

[€uroMeinke]

They came like vultures
Sensing death
But they were family
Pretending love

“But certainly, there’s a will?
There must be something here
To divide amongst us
Or at least sell?”

But there wasn’t
Death was still 20 years away
Possessions used
Money spent

So we buried dad alone
With love,
Respect and dignity
And little else.

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Last Will and Testament by Stephanie Bock

You are all gathered here because I have died.

Since this will is being written by me at the tender age of 14, then it's obvious I've died some horribly untimely death. If I don't die young, this will never be seen. It's sad to ponder the concept of never seeing adulthood, but I've pondered it. Life can be unfair and grim and painful.

Anyway, on to the Will.

My camera goes to my friend Max. His camera isn't all that great and mine is brand new. I hope he makes good use of it.

My PS2 goes to Alicia. She never wanted to do anything else when she came over. She gets all the games and everything that goes with it.

My cool glitter pen set goes a girl named Lan that sits behind me in 3rd period. She told me she liked them and it started us being friends in that class. I don't remember her last name.

My books go to Drew. He gets first choice of any of my sci-fi series. I wouldn't have read all that if he hadn't been reading it too.

Yes, Mom and Dad, you may read my journal now. I hope no one gets offended or anything. I had some bad days, just like anyone else. I'd like to know that someone will read that stuff someday. I hope the poetry isn't too weird.

All the notes I've passed throughout my school years are saved in boxes marked "Private". These notes are sorted by the person who wrote them, in the order they were received. On my death, these notes are to be given back to those that wrote them. Let those people know that saved communications are among my most cherished possessions. They can do what they want with them, though.

That goes for any photos including other people too, although most of my stuff is digital now anyway.

My posters go to Melissa, who shares the same crushes I do, and who made it bearable that we wouldn't ever get to meet them.

My bike is in really bad shape and I don't want to will it on anyone that doesn't want it, so Mom and Dad can do what they want with it.

And now the really important stuff:

My room goes to my little brother. I don't want it set up as some kind of shrine - please redecorate it and give it to Matt. Matt, you can also have my stereo, all my music, and my computer. You weren't old enough to merit all that before, but I'm sure you'll grow into it.

Any money from my bank account that was for college, as well as my babysitting money in my locked box, goes towards any funeral expenses. If there's any left after that (which I doubt) please put it towards Matt's college fund.

Mom and Dad, anything else that I have owned is yours, of course. I tried to think of something I could will to you, but I think the loss of a daughter would too much to compensate for. Besides, you gave me everything I have, so I can't really give you anything at all.

Hmm, how about if I will you my music box. The one with the kissing dolls on it that plays "Favorite Things". Keep that for me, please?

That's the will. I hope no one ever reads this. I just want to be prepared, that's all.

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Oh my f*cking God, I loved this. I love Stephanie Bock and I want her to be my friend. So many kids do this, too. Make a will. And it's amazing how much you know about her just from this one testament. How kind and wonderful and thoughtful she is. This story makes me even *more* glad to know you, Jen. Seriously, two things you've written for this thread are two of the best short stories I've read in months. I think you're an amazing talent and should be writing all the time. I really love your casual style. I feel like these people are speaking to me, in the same room with me. She's so real. So totally 14. And I love that she's not necessarily dead. This could just be totally charming, or only slightly morbid. I love how she talks about the things she owns. The phrasing. I wouldn't change a thing. I wante dto cut and paste my favorite bits but it feels like cutting and pasting the whole thing.

"Hmm, how about if I will you my music box. The one with the kissing dolls on it that plays "Favorite Things". Keep that for me, please?"

That actually got me teary eyed at work.

Man. Write more, more, more!

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Whoo boy, such praise from Eliza is heady stuff!

Speaking of our dear Eliza, here's my concept for the next assignment. We all love Eliza's diary style writings. I challenge you to give us A Slice of Your Life. It can encompass one moment or many moments, and can be as long or short as you want, but it must be from your point of view, on a normal day(s) of your life. Of course, you can make it up if you want since we have no clue whether it's true or not....but it must be a believable circumstance.

Oooh, I'm all excited to read what people have to offer!

[Prudence]

I'm hoping it's okay for me to use the wayback machine and take a slice of life from my past. This is something I was already working on in my head. Sorry, it's kind of long. But it's the truth from my perspective.

Puberty: An Autobiography

For years my peers referred to me as “Zitso.” Not because I was the only one with bad skin, or because mine was the worst, but because I had been first, and because I didn’t know my place.

The worst transgression a girl can make as she travels through puberty is to shamelessly be smarter than the boys. There were other smart girls, maybe even some who were smarter. Some kept quiet and never revealed their test scores. They slid by under the radar -- not popular, but not a target. Others would bat their eyelashes and ask the nearest boy for unnecessary help; good grades could then be attributed to male tutelage, not feminine smarts.

I didn’t realize the importance of this game. My parents always taught me (indirectly, by their actions) that my intelligence was something to be proud of and use as best I could. My mom stayed home with us until I was in high school, but I knew she was smart. My dad used to take me to work with him on the weekends. I’d sit in his office and marvel at all the wonders in his desk. Colored paper clips! A grease pencil! Special rulers! He’d introduce me to any of his co-workers who happened to be there on the weekend. Maybe it’s because it was the weekend and there were never more than a few other people there, but I never noticed a real difference in numbers between men and women and just assumed that when I grew up, I’d have an office, too. And my own grease pencil.

My dad would take me down to the big computer room at his work and show me the machines taller than I was, with the spinning reels of data. There were pages and pages of dot-matrix printouts with the perforated edges. One day, my dad decided that I needed to know what factorials were and he took me downstairs to his den and wrote out an explanation on the white board. It wasn’t until I was much older that I realized that my dad never treated me like a “girl.” He never assumed that I wouldn’t be interested in math or computers. In fact, he assumed that I would share each and every one of his technological hobbies and to this day describes his latest accomplishments in exquisite detail – whether or not I want to hear about them.

But the kids in my class didn’t know my dad. They received the usual messages about how girls are supposed to behave around boys. One day the boy we carpooled with asked if he could carry my books for me. I naively assured him that I could carry them myself, because I could; there were only a couple, and why shouldn’t I carry my own burden if I was able? But unbeknownst to me, that seemingly simple question was the first step in some pre-pubescent mating dance and I had rejected his advances. By doing for myself, I demonstrated a total lack of respect for my place in the social hierarchy. I was unrepentant and I’d made an enemy for life.

And that’s when the “Zitso” started. Everyone called me that; to refuse was to offer to be the next target. Teachers joined in on the game, because they wanted to show that they were fun and approachable. And what better way to demonstrate solidarity with students then by joining in the taunting? After all, I never cried in front of them, so it must not have bothered me too much. I saved all my tears for home, where my mother saw and knew that I was miserable, but didn’t know what to do. I was ashamed of everything about myself. I was significantly underweight and convinced I was fat. I didn’t have the right clothes. In seventh grade, I refused to take off my jacket during the day because then people would see the dark spot on the back waistband of my jeans where I’d cut off the label. They were the wrong brand, but the only ones my mother would buy for me.

Most of my eighth grade year is a blank; that’s the year my dad almost died. I had three friends at school. One girl had a spiky mullet and walked with a limp; when my mother saw her years later in a store, the girl swore she’d never known me. Another girl had a learning disability. She was a really good friend, but I was in the honors class and she was in special ed and we didn’t see each other much during the day. I went with her, her dad, and her little brother to my first rock concert – George Michael’s Faith tour, live in the Tacoma Dome. It was almost as if I was a normal kid. The last was the school drug dealer. He looked like he never bathed. He was regularly beat up and tolerated only for his willingness to provide what the other students wanted. I don’t know what eventually became of him, but I will always think of him as a gentleman. He once offered me some of his product, and seemed almost relieved when I told him I wasn’t interested in that. He never offered it again.

Meanwhile, my dad was diagnosed with cancer again. He’d had cancer once before – a malignant lump on his back. The lump was removed and the area treated with radiation. We were lucky that the cancer hadn’t spread. My dad went to several follow-up treatments, spaced farther and farther apart as time went on and he remained cancer-free. He had one final appointment before they would give him the “all clear.” It was on that visit that they discovered five lumps in his lungs.

My dad has never smoked even a single cigarette. He didn’t have lung cancer like you think of when you hear the term. He had lymphomas that just happened to be in his lungs. He had surgery to remove the portions of his lungs that contained the tumors, and I learned that you could use staples inside a human being.

Chemotherapy followed. He planned the chemo for late Thursday evenings. He’d work four 10-hour days, Monday through Thursday. That way he wouldn’t have to take any leave from work. Thursdays my mom would take him to chemo. When they got home, my mom would leave him in the car, come in the house, and make us go to our rooms. Then she’d bring in my dad and the pink basin into which he would vomit. She’d put my dad to bed and let us out of our rooms. My dad would be sick all weekend, but go back to work on Monday. We didn’t seem much of him during treatment, because he was either at work, working at home, or sick in bed.

One night my mom came into my bedroom while I was asleep to tell me that she was taking my dad to the hospital, but that a neighbor was going to come over in case we needed anything, and that my mom would be back to get us ready for school in the morning.

That was the night my dad almost died. His fever had skyrocketed and he required a massive transfusion. He stayed in the hospital for some time after that. I don’t remember how long, because frankly I don’t remember much from that time; I’ve written here almost my entire memory of that year. I didn’t find out until years later how close to death he came. I do remember visiting him in the hospital. My parents never wanted us to see that my dad was sick, so he must have been there some time if they thought we should come see him there.

But my dad lived. He ever even lost all his hair. He still has health problems, but he’s still around, fairly active now that he’s had his hip replaced, and still telling me all about his latest technological accomplishments. It’s a good thing I’m in law school, because some day he’s going to get sued over his websites.

And eventually my classmates gave up the taunting. My skin cleared up for a time and the name replacement no longer made sense. High school teachers weren’t so eager to be friends with the students. There was one last attempt to keep me in my place. My pelvic bone didn’t form quite properly and, despite years of ballet training, I was still a bit pigeon-toed if I didn’t concentrate on my walking. Once, on a field trip to Seattle Center, the boys walked in a cluster behind me, dragging one foot behind them with their hands clasped as claws to their chest in the classic “hey, retard!” pose used by teen boys everywhere. One of the girls asked me who the boys were mocking and I realized that she truly didn’t know. That’s when I knew the spell had been broken. The boy clique could mock me all they wanted, but they were their own audience now, and no one else cared.

[blueerica]

Originally Posted by Prudence

Puberty: An Autobiography

I'd like to say something really cool in response to this, but I've got a couple o tears running down my face, so I'll just leave it at this was really amazing, and I'm so glad you shared.

-e

[Eliza Hodgkins 1812]

Originally Posted by Prudence

The boy clique could mock me all they wanted, but they were their own audience now, and no one else cared.

What a great ender.

I like how you contrast the painful humiliation of the ridiculous school taunting with teh painful realities of what was going on with your family at the time. I also find it interesting how both can occupy an equal amount of head space in a young person's mind, especially a sensitive person's. The poor girl jeans would have probably effected me as much as my dad's illness. Sometimes those kinds of feelings just blur into each other thanks to all the puberty hormones. Thanks for sharing this, Prudence.

God, I hated junior high school. High School was grand. Junior High School was a friggin' nightmare. 8th grade, especially. [shudder]

[Cadaverous Pallor]

Awesome, awesome stuff, Prudence. Thanks for the bravery. I can't mojo you yet, but I will, ASAP.

[blueerica]

I haven't been posting in the thread lately. I suck, I know. I start writing for it, then something comes up. My life's been a little crazy lately, but when this topic came up, I wanted to post.

This is very long, and I'm apologizing in advance. I don't even know where to edit it down at.

(I'm just hoping this can fit in one post, to be honest)

_________________________
I’m not one for replacing items, especially, it seems, DVDs and CDs. I’m not a hundred percent sure why, but usually, it’s been something that was stolen, something ruined in some way, and I never try to hunt it down again. I must have gotten all I needed from it, it was it’s time to go, and I’d say goodbye silently, by not trying to regain what was once had.

For much of my childhood, I remembered my ex-step father being abusive to my mother. I remember being blamed for his smoking. As the years wore on, he became more controlling with me, and moved from being emotionally abusive to being physically abusive to me. We moved a few times, my mom had twins, and during my junior year of high school, they purchased a resort, of types, with a convenience store attached to the front. Things seemed promising, and I was commissioned to work in the store, usually while watching my sisters. The pay was virtually non-existent, I soon realized (despite promises of payment, my former step-dad decided to give himself advances in cocaine). So I applied for a job at a deli & convenience store, and I planned on still working at our store. I got the job, and wow! Money! Amazing! I could afford, things, I could do things.. I bought things I really wanted like CDs, and clothes. I was still managing to pull in around 20 hours a week at the family shop, and kept up with my school work enough to keep an A-B average (thanks insomnia, and the occasional pick-me-up from the school supplier!). I have to say that during that time in my life, music really saved it. It felt good, and I could lose myself in it.

Senior year came; mentally, I was as stretched out as can be. School, inevitably, got tougher, and I started picking up more hours at the other place, Ferguson’s. The fighting got worse. The ex-step would be gone for weeks on binges, only to return angry and violent. He was mad that I was spending so much time working for “fvcking Ferguson’s” and not working for him. Screaming and yelling every night he was home about it. He would grab me, shake me, and shove me against the counter. He used to like to break things and throw things, especially at people. There were a number of times I’d remember ducking a plate being thrown in my general direction (wow, I can infer from Python while writing about this??), only because he was f-ed up from the coke & didn’t like what was for dinner.

The very last fight I had with him, I remember coming home from Ferguson’s on a warm May night. I had just graduated from high school, and I got home late, carrying in stuff from my car, including my CD folder, to see him sitting there, half-drunk with an old friend of his, who was just as much of an alkie as he was, just as much of a drug user as he was, but far more passive. I came through the door, to his – I wish you could hear it, I don’t know if I can properly describe it – low, dark, grumble and mumble. His curses, his voice raised. He started yelling, and the friend got up and left. He took the CD folder out of my hands and slammed it on the ground; he grabbed my arms around my biceps and started shaking me, and pushing me toward the counter. I’d become so accustomed to that “move” that I managed to not get too hurt, except for a few bruises on my arm, and got myself out of his drunk grasp. Sh!t started flying, and finally he reached my CD case, which was already opened, threw it open onto the ground, and stomped on it. Between that and the screaming, I just about lost it. It was the last fvcking time he was going to do this, I told myself. I ran upstairs to the loft-style room I was now sharing with my toddler twin sisters. It was dark, and the ESF was shouting below. At that point, I really don’t remember much. The next thing I remember is my sister Brittany screeching at my leg, and I’m poised with a solid-glass statue, aiming at the man coming up the stairs. He stumbled backward and fell, and I looked at my sister, and knew that I had to get out. He never came back up the stairs.

I led my sister to her bed, and climbed in with her. I couldn’t even cry. I just felt nauseated, and shocked, and confused, and… lost. Things quieted downstairs. Once I knew the coast was clear, I went down and picked up the CD folder. He broke my Smashing Pumpkins CD, Siamese Dream, and Soundgarden, Superunknown. The rest seemed fine, but all I remember is just sobbing, as these were, perhaps, my two favorite CDs in the world. I went over to the phone in the hallway, sat down on the floor, stretching the twisted cord, and called my grandfather in Huntington Beach, California, which seemed about the furthest thing from Newaygo, Michigan. Beepa said he’d get me out as soon as possible. I put in my two weeks notice at Ferg’s, and on June 10th, I hopped on a plane to Los Angeles.

In my mind, I said goodbye to a lot of what was my life in Michigan. Each time I’d go to a music store, I’d look at various CDs – always passing those CDs by. In my mind, I couldn’t bring myself to buy those again. I’m really not sure why, but I’d pick them up each time for at least a year and a half, only to set them down again. When I hear certain songs on the radio, I’d imagine the bridge to the next song starting up, but it was never there.

Flash to May 6, 2005.

I’m at the Block at Orange with my two sisters, who had moved out a couple of years after I did, with our mom. We’re walking around, and what should I do but wander into Virgin. I’m already broke from this past weekend’s music purchases, but staring me down is one copy of Siamese Dream right as soon as I walk through the doors. I pick it up. Walk to the line. Settle with the cashier.

We were tired from a long day, so we went to the parking lot, hopped into the car, and I put in the CD. Even my sisters somehow knew the lesser-known songs from that CD. I nearly started crying. Somehow, it felt like some part of my life got resolved.

Next week, I’m picking up Superunknown. I should have done this a LONG time ago.