i hate everything i’ve ever written

the things i haven’t, too

i’ll spoon spite into my hungry wounds

use incense on my forearms

to practice english

but all i write of:

worry

worry

worry

two peas in a pod,

except one is missing.

odd numbers are dangerous

when she has no one else.

how many options does she have

if no one chooses her?

walls protect hearts

so there won’t ever be a best friend.

flips her hair and raises her hand

when she hasn’t got a partner.

out of three,

who will lose?

two peas in a pod,

except one rejects the other.

Dear Sir and Madam,

Instead of searching for food this morning, I sought out pen and paper. Words will be my sustenance today, and I invite you to feast with me at what I have come to think of as my last supper. A compassionate school girl, much like your own daughter, took pity on me, stopping in the rain to place these requested supplies in my hand. I hope her parents do not punish her if they hear she chose to speak with me and take pity on an old man. Up until recently this simple kindness would have given me strength to carry on for days. Now, however, I am spent.

Mr. Evans, the previous owner of your restaurant, provided me with many meals these past two years. When he handed the food out back, he was always willing to include a smile, which sweetened my moments even more than the desserts he so graciously gave. I hope he knew, more often than not, I gave those meals away to others more desperate than myself.

I have thought of Mr. Evans often while putting pen to paper for this composition you now hold in your hands. I slid open that drawer in my mind (you have one as well) and sifted, sifted, pulling out my fondest memories in order to revel in them one last time. His face is one of myriad images that have flashed before me.

I have savored each one: my dark-haired beauty in her wedding dress, a former student who came to visit many years later to hold up his success like a completed patchwork quilt for me to admire. Dining with my cousin at our favorite restaurant (I used to actually eat inside. Imagine that!) where we doused the homemade biscuits with cinnamon butter. “Yes,” we would say, “we’d like some biscuits with our butter.” The waitress with bright blue eyes who would smile at our familiar joke. My dog, Sonny, whom I loved dearly even though he crowded me out of the bed nearly every night, but whose warmth was undeniable.

Mr. Evans knew my story, why I am where I am now, but you do not. I cannot fault you, Sir and Madam, for not knowing my history.

I can, however, indict you for assuming you knew me. For shouting at me to “get away from the door, you measly, witless old man.”

I can admonish you for your cruelty. As you well know, after you turned me away, your little daughter brought bread out for me in a small basket with a carefully placed pat of butter. You probably don’t know, however, I heard the punishment you delivered to her soon after discovering her kindness to me. I heard her cries as she was taught a lesson about “wasting food”. In the future, you should be more careful to shut the door all the way.

Before my wife passed, she told me to fill up the world with as much goodness as I could muster. I assume she was speaking of the students I was teaching. She wished for me to remain hopeful, but neither of us anticipated the tsunami of grief that would, for a time, wash away my wits and end up costing me the little I had left. But even here, on the streets, I have tried to do some good. People like Mr. Evans helped me.

I sold my wife’s wedding ring today for a healthy sum. You both probably think How foolish! You could have gotten money for it long ago. As the only piece I had left of our life together, I trust you will understand. I had decided I would never sell it unless I reached a point of desperation I could not overcome. I find I am no longer desperate to stay in this world, though. Buying the pills, in my mind, is buying a ticket to escape this world I no longer belong in so that I can join my dark-haired beauty and, my old man heart smiles at this, maybe even Sonny.

This letter to you is my last endeavor at goodness. I certainly cannot place all the blame on you since I have seen much in my time out here. But I feel you should know you were my breaking point. I have not the courage of Giles Corey in The Crucible; I can bear no more weight. I am too old, too broken, too tired to seek out another Mr. Evans or to hear the cries of a child being thrashed for showing compassion.

So I leave you with this. We can be many things to others in this world, but we should avoid, at all costs, ever being someone’s last straw.

I hope I have been a sufficient host whose words have in some way filled the emptiness within you both.

A Wayfaring Stranger

You ever feel like a total alien?

Like you’re only pretending to be human?

Like you’re just mimicking whatever ‘human’ behaviours are expected of you?

I feel like everybody will probably experience this at some point in their lives, whether it's for a few months, years or a mere couple hours.

It’s odd.

. . .

But a little bit cool at the same time.

It kind of feels like you exist in a different realm, and you’re just peeking into human life. Gathering whatever information you can, so you can go report your findings at your fancy alien univesity later on.

I took a personality test once, turns out I’m an INTJ (I don’t really think this test is legitimate though). Apparently, INTJs usually feel like aliens a ton. So maybe that’s why.

But then again, I think everybody goes through this, so probably not.

Maybe we’re all aliens. But then wouldn’t that mean we aren’t aliens? Because an alien would imply somebody that is somehow different, right? But if we are all one thing, then nobody is different, hence nobody is an alien.

Hmmmm.

Here’s the definition of an alien:

Alien: belonging to a foreign country or nation

Now I’m even more confused than when I started writing this. That’s how I know I should stop writing . . . Also the word alien sounds so weird to me now.

For once, let go. Let the pain slide out from your fingers like sand, breathe again. This control is killing you, so let go. With every passing minute you stay stuck clutching knives to your chest, the deeper your wounds will get. God knows the knives may be diamond encrusted, or have other superficial value to us people, but there’s more out there. You have a road, there’s a plan for you. L e t g o.

Inspired by Jeremiah 29:11

Is there such a thing as being too ambitious?

-

Is it bad to be a dreamer?

-

Does constantly having your head up in the clouds keep you from dealing with reality?

- I mean, probably, right? I think, in a way, dreaming is almost dangerous. If you get addicted to it (more so than the real world), your life will get tangled up. You’ll forget about the issues that are right in front of you, and drive yoruself into a pit. Kind of sounds like drug addiction now that I think of it.

Am I a dreamer?

-

Is a dreamer someone who only sits there and imagines what they could do, or is it someone that imagines what they could do and actually DOES IT?

-

Is a person truly ambitious if they only have an end goal, without actually having a plan (or at least attempting to make a realistic plan) on how to achieve it all?

-

(If you don't know what this game is, Google it, its actually super cool! Just type "Nerf Wars School Animation" into youtube, and you will get the idea)

Killing Games In High School: Good Or Bad?

One game that seems to be taking a hold in today’s schools is a type of modified, real life battle royale called Killer. Students compete for a cash prize, composed of the money all the students have paid as an entrance fee. Many people today firmly believe that these games are harmful for today's youth. However, these games have many benefits, such as improving the ability to function in the real world, team working skills, and brain development.

One way games like Killer can be beneficial is by improving teen’s real world skills such as hand-eye-coordination, and memorization. When playing the game, whether you use water pistols or Nerf guns, hand-eye-coordination is vital to success. It’s kill or be killed during play, and you don’t want to lose your chance at victory just because your aim was off. By improving hand-eye-coordination, students can eccell in the musical arts by playing instruments better than they could before. The game also helps teens improve memorization, such as remembering targets, teams, other student’s schedules, and general building layout. All of this is beneficial in the real world, as it helps people know where to go in buildings once teens are old enough to get a job, remember job and college schedules, names and faces of co-workers, and to-do lists.

These games also improve team-working skills. In today’s digital era, proper communication and articulation of language is key if you want to get your point across using only a computer screen and plain, one color text. Because of the fact that team-mates can often not reveal they are on the same team by meeting face to face, or if they can, most don’t to lower the risk of an ambush by an opposing team. So in order to communicate, texting and email are used to coordinate attacks. During these games, conveying urgency and well-worded orders in as little time and words as possible is important if teams have a hope of winning. Most jobs today, if not all, require some kind of technological communication, and a few occupations are entirely dependent on digital messages and information. So many modern occupations require well articulated communication to even function, and if someone already is well-versed or has at least some experience in this field and can do it well, it can give them a huge leg up in the world.

Many people’s largest concern about this game is that they think that it can inhibit brain development, desensitize kids to violence, and increase aggressive tendencies, and that concern is not badly placed. However, what people fail to know whether through lack of information or just plain bias, is that age is a HUGE favor. A study showed that yes, games which have violence in them can affect kids, but ONLY while their brain is still developing and changing at a certain rate. Because of that, kids anywhere from 7th grade and up can play the, and not be negatively affected. If a child is in some way negatively affected by the games, and is over 7th grade, that is a sign of a larger issue, and is not the game's or your teen’s fault. Many people also worry that these games desensitize kids to violence. And really, they are not wrong. However, yes, it can desensitize you to violence, but not in a bad way. It teaches these High School kids that the world is not all sunshine and rainbows, and sometimes you have to fight. Is it not better to have some idea on how to defend yourself with a weapon or hide in a bad situation, then be completely clueless?

And when you look at it, the desensitization that will occur while playing these games pales in comparison to what the internet, friends, and news can provide. If a High School kid can’t even stomach the thought of violence, and refuses to throw a punch to even defend themselves against an attacker because they have been raised in a house that constantly screams about how bad any type of violence is, no matter the context, it becomes an issue with the parents. Exposure to the real world is vital to teens being able to function, parents can’t keep them shut away from the world forever just because of their personal views on violence.

So, sure. These games can harm kids in the way some people think they can. But they only negatively affect the audience they were not meant to be viewed or played by, such as middle schoolers. These real life battle royale games are meant to be paid only by teens. School wide events such as Killer can positively affect the way students act in the world, talk to others, and think and respond to the world around them. The games just have to be played with the consideration that younger kids are not best suited to this form of school entertainment in mind.

Mrs. Sander’s AP English Classroom:

Today’s Online Writing Prompt (Day 13 of quarantine) - What important lessons can we learn from quarantine/isolation?

Student Response from Nate Goodman:

Thirteen days have changed my life. I know you set up this assignment to help us focus on what good things we might discover during this time, but I have nothing to report on that front. Just in case you don’t have time to read this whole response, I am typing the most important part here. PLEASE COME TO MY HOUSE AND RETRIEVE MY HEN, MARIBEL. SHE NEEDS A NEW HOME, AND I AM HOPING YOU CAN PROVIDE THAT ON YOUR FARM.

I’ve seen the news reports showing goodness abounding during this time. I have been happy to see that much of the world’s experiences are not what I have witnessed. But perhaps that is not surprising since I didn’t have the foundation upon which to build happy family moments in the first place.

My family is often without toilet paper. Not because the shelves are now empty, but because my mother’s god is whatever bottle of alcohol is closest to her, and she can’t be bothered to remember the basic necessities. You’ve maybe seen the posts about using the fast-food napkins stored in the glovebox during these times? I knew their usefulness beforehand.

My brother, Richard, has been back home for the past three months. The latest in a seemingly never-ending line of jobs didn’t pan out. So this should have been a good time to catch up, right? If you met my brother, you’d quickly figure out the answer. Richard’s lips are raised in a permanent snarl. In his mind, the world has ignored him, shamed him, and not given him what he deserved. He’ll tell you this within the first few moments of meeting him. People like my brother are the very worst people to have around in times of distress because they only look out for themselves. Everyone else is only an accessory to whatever fleeting happiness they seek at the moment.

I’ve been watching Richard closely, while he keeps his eyes on Mr. Grady, who lives just a little way down the road. Mr. Grady, who keeps a store of pills to treat his elderly conditions. Richard knows this, and I know how much he’d love to get his hands on them. Sell them for some extra money since now any potential jobs are halted. “Might as well go over and smother that old man with his pillow one night. Put him out of his misery,” Richard said.

Maybe, Mrs. Sander, you think Richard was just talking. I know better.

Today is Richard’s birthday. As you know, fresh meat has been hard to find, but a couple of days ago Richard decided his greatest desire for his celebration was to have a chicken dinner. He set his eyes on Maribel, the hen I had raised for Mr. Davis’s agriculture class last year. Maribel has long been my friend. When my mom is stumbling around the house, cursing her existence, as well as mine, I go out and talk to Maribel. I’m thinking you might have chickens already on your farm, Mrs. Sander. Have you ever noticed how they cock their little heads and look you right in the eye when you’re speaking, especially the hens? Sadly, Maribel has been my main maternal presence at home for quite some time. Most days, I don’t see my human mother.

Richard was going to kill Maribel to satisfy his own selfish cravings. “I’ll do it at night,” he had said. “So you won’t even know it’s happening.” But I was going to stop him. I knew where he kept his gun.

I keep Maribel in a small shed out back at night, to protect her from predators. I hid myself back in the corner last night and listened to Maribel’s warm, soft cluckings.

Right around midnight, Richard entered. He stopped when he saw me standing with the gun pointed toward him. Then he grinned. He stepped toward me and grabbed for the gun, which was pointed at his chest. I instinctively moved my arms upward at the same time I felt his hand encircle my wrist.

I pulled the trigger. I’d like to say it was accidentally, Mrs. Sander, but I can’t say for sure. I was afraid; Richard had his hands on me. This made me point the gun toward his face, but did anything physical actually force me to pull the trigger? I probably shouldn’t put that in writing, but honesty propels me even now.

Richard is dead, and I’m calling the police soon. I’m guessing no one paid attention to the gunshot or someone would have already been here. I just wanted to make sure Maribel will be safe.

I hope the police will listen to my story. Maybe you can speak for me too, Mrs. Sander. I think you thought I had a real future ahead of me. I plan to tell them the whole history with Richard, all the time I have spent monitoring him, protecting myself and trying to protect those around me. We worry unceasingly about those infected with the virus; we should be equally concerned with those corrupted by selfishness. They can just as easily be death’s harbingers.

they've put me in a cage

locked by whispers and disease

they've put me in a line

six feet to seperate between the air we breathe

they've cut me off from people

corraled us off of the streets

they've broken my education

trying to teach us through a screen

they've tried to keep me safe from this pandemic that they've spread

they've tried to keep me healthy so that I don't end up dead

but all this isolation is messing with my brain

they've kept me from the virus but didn't prevent me from going insane