The holidays and the turn of the year are always a time of great reflection for me as I reminisce about the year and contemplate the passing of another……. oh what the heck, let’s just get straight to the contest shall we??
This week marks the publication week of Jennifer Hubbard’s spellbinding YA debut THE SECRET YEAR, which is about a high schooler, Colt, who was secretly dating a rich girl for a year, and no one knew – not even her boyfriend. When she dies in a car crash he discovers her diary, which is full of memories and unsent letters that describe how much she cared about him and reveals the things she didn’t have the courage to tell him while she was alive.
It’s a poignant and unforgettable novel about love and loss, and, per Booklist, “is a fine addition to the pantheon of YA literature.” Really really amazing, heartbreaking, moving, and etc. Though books don’t have a ratings system, THE SECRET YEAR is intended for an older young adult audience and as always all the parents out there should use their own discretion.
So. For the first time IN BLOG HISTORY (er, well, for this blog’s history anyway), in honor of THE SECRET YEAR we will have a writing prompt contest!
Your prompt: Write the most compelling (fictional) teen diary entry. It may be a diary entry or an unsent letter, but it should be in a teen’s voice.
That’s all you gotta do.
Let’s start with the prizes.
The GRAND PRIZE ULTIMATE WINNER of the THE SECRET YEAR Teen Diary Writing Contest Extravaganza will win:
– A signed copy of THE SECRET YEAR (pending winner’s proximity to the US of A)
– Their choice of a query critique, partial critique, or 10 minute phone conversation/consultation/dish session
– The pride of knowing OMG you are like the greatest writer for teens ever.
Runners up will receive a signed THE SECRET YEAR bookmark (pending finalists’ proximity to USA), plus a query critique and/or other agreed-upon prize.
Now for the rules. Please note that all rules may and probably will be amended at my sole (and fickle) discretion.
1. Please enter one teen diary entry not to exceed 500 words in the comments section of this blog post. E-mail subscribers: you must must must must must (must) enter in the official contest thread. Please do not e-mail me your entries! If you need help leaving a comment, please consult this post.
2. You may enter once, and once you may enter.
3. Spreading the word about the contest is not only encouraged, it is strongly encouraged.
4. Snarky comments, anonymous or otherwise, about entries, the weather, the Na’vi tribe of blue people, and/or Mike Tyson will be deleted with relish. You will find the nearest free speech zone approximately 500 pixels away from this blog.
5. Please please check and double-check your entry before posting. If you spot an error after posting: please do not re-post. I go through the entries sequentially and the repeated deja vu repeated deja vu from reading the same entry only slightly different makes my head spin. I’m not worried about typos, nor should you be.
6. I will be the sole judge of the contest.
7. You must be at least 14 years old and less than 137 years old to enter. No exceptions.
8. I’m on Twitter! You can find me at @nathanbransford and I may be posting updates about the contest.
9. The deadline for this contest is 4:00 PM Pacific Time on Wednesday January 6th. Finalists will be announced Thursday morning, and you will have the opportunity to vote on the winner, which will be announced on Friday.
To get you in the teen diary spirit, here is a brief excerpt from one of Julia’s unsent letters to Colt in THE SECRET YEAR:
Dear CM:
I can’t stop thinking about you. I’m supposed to see Austin tonight, and I’d rather chew on sandpaper. If I have to listen to one more story about how wasted he got, or the magic chemical mixture he invented to clean a smudge off his car seats, I’ll hang myself. Why do I stay with him? You never ask, but sometimes I wonder if it bothers you that I’m with him. Maybe you’re even glad. It lets you off the hook. I told you once that you wouldn’t want to be my boyfriend, and you didn’t argue with me.
The thing about Austin is, we have a lot in common. We both like dancing and partying, and it’s fun until he gets too drunk. Sometimes on Sunday afternoons, I go to his house and the family’s sitting around with the Sunday paper all over the place, and maybe we play a game or something, and it’s nice. I belong there. With Austin, everything fits. With you, I never know.
Good luck! May the best teen diary writer win!
UPDATE: Time’s up! Thank you so much for entering!
Jeff Hewitt says
Hey journal.
I know most everything I write is bland bullshit, who likes whom, who broke up, who's fighting, who's screwing, all that stuff. No one wants to read that other than me. I'm not sure why I even journal, but I think it helps me sort out my thoughts, helps me keep in mind why I feel different and why that's okay. Why do I stand outside my friends and their day to day shit? I dunno. Still, there was something different about today.
New kid in school. A chick. She's hot, and not in that way that makes all the hot chicks in my class look the same. And, when I saw her, my hands went all sweaty and clammy. I thought that was bestseller crap, but there it was. My mouth was dry too. I've never seen anyone like her. Her hair is dark, totally upsetting the wannabe Valley crowd. Or so you'd think, but she's fit right in. I want to feel betrayed by how easy she fits, but that doesn't make sense. I guess a new face is welcome in a small school. Who cares, right? But…the way she walks…it's mesmerizing. I don't even know if it's her hips, or her smile, or…what.
Fuck, I can't even think straight enough to get it down on paper. She just seems natural, I guess. The type of chick that's cool with everyone. You see them in movies but it's like they're unicorns around here. Everyone fits in one spot, everyone's one damn connection, and somehow she's…universal. An adapter. That's a shitty analogy, but…that's what I get. She fits in wherever.
She's got a couple classes with me, um… AP biology and Economics/Government. Andy's lab partner was sick today so she was with him for more Punnett fucking squares (how I do love alleles!). You'd never guess how boring they are from the way she tossed her hair and smiled. Jake, my partner, got pissed because I wasn't paying attention, but that's not new. He's always pissed. He just goes on and on about his dad. Lay off, man! No one wants to hear it anymore! Everyone hates their dad, it's highschool. My last class of the day is Economics…and…wow. Coach Governs was out today and we had a sub, who just told us to do the work sheets. She sat there and read. The new chick sat next to me, and I could smell her vanilla perfume. She wore just enough, everyone around here just hoses themselves down with shit but hers…just a hint. It made my nose tingle, and my stomach tight. She asked me for some help on one part. I stammered the whole time. She probably think I'm a tool. Thing is, she smiled at me. I couldn't tell you the last time anyone, especially a chick, smiled at me, at my school. When the bell rang, I even had the guts to find out her name.
It's Rose.
January 6, 2010.
Eugenia Tibbs says
July 17,
Mom finally said something to me about the power being shut off. She tried really hard to laugh it off, said if anybody asked to tell them we joined the Sierra Club. I didn’t let her know that I found the bill a couple of days ago.
She won’t let me get a summer job, says she wants me to stay home and be a kid. Taking care of the garden is job enough.
I’m fifteen already! It’s time for me to start helping out and be a man. Mom already works two lousy paying jobs, if she would let me mow lawns or something it could at least go towards keeping the stupid lights on.
Better than robbing banks.
A bank.
Like the one just down the street.
Sara’s trying to talk me out of it, but that’s just because her dad’s a cop.
It’s not like it would be all that hard to start, the hole’s already in the basement wall. Sara brought over her flashlight last night so we were able to check it out. Can’t tell yet how far back it goes but we’ll crawl into it tomorrow, if Sara won’t freak out. The creep factor is way high down there. Every day it’s been over 90 degrees outside but in the basement last night I swear we could see our breath.
Sara says if there’s a body down there she’s telling. I don’t think it would smell so much like flowers if something was dead down there.
Would it?
Melissa Sarno says
I wish Callie understood. This is the only place for me. The sun is hot and the days are long and there are so many beautiful people walking arm in arm under a blue sky. It’s not like home, what Mama calls it, all quiet and dark, those ugly flowered drapes. Dad’s not here, to vanish once again. Callie says nobody sees us, but at least we’re really here.
She doesn’t know how cold it is there. How we stay indoors, waiting for people who never come. Nobody wants to show up for school but I bring my paper-bag lunch and eat alone.
Callie thinks everyone on the island is a fake. She doesn’t understand how it is that Jenny’s make-up doesn’t smudge when she’s swimming. She thinks Oscar wants to get in and get out of one of us and that’ll be it. That’ll be the end. Of what? She doesn’t know that it would be the beginning. Of something. Anything. She doesn’t see what I see here.
She doesn’t understand that when the summer is over, there’s nothing else out there for me.
Sarah says
The traitor lies at the foot of my bed, licking her left paw.
Jake is gone. Finally. The longest evening ever.
As soon as Jake arrived, I needed to move. To do something different. To avoid the usual routine:
1. Token acknowledgment of traitor at the door
2. Make nice to parents
3. Retreat to basement
4. Turn on TV
5. Make out
Not Saturday night so we couldn't go out – that would be breaking routine. Jake doesn't do board games and he's watching his weight for wrestling.
"Let's walk Lady," I said. Then added, "I promised my mom." I can't seem to stop lying now that I know how.
At first the traitor acted like she didn't believe me. She knows our routine.
Jake said, "Maybe she doesn't want to go."
But then she jumped up. Dragged us down the road. I was ready to move fast with her. The wind was a relief.
I didn't realize where she was leading us. Not at first.
But then I saw the field. Behind the gas station. Where C works. The field where C takes his breaks. Lady was there one time. Only once. But she remembered.
The closer we got, the harder she pulled. Then bent down in her throw-me-another-ball pose. Her whimpers turned into absolute total yelps… Because C was there.
Lady wanted him.
Desperately.
Now.
Wanted to leap over him with wags and kisses and sniffs.
I knew how she felt. When I saw C's hideous orange stained uniform jacket and lop-sided beanie cap, my heart
was a traitor too.
C grinned.
I wanted to act like Lady.
But when Jake said, "What the hell is wrong with your dog?", routine kicked in and the lies poured out.
"I don't know. I think she saw a squirrel. We should go back."
My mouth only tells lies anymore.
C gave me such a look.
And now, here on my bed, with Jake finally gone
Lady looks at me like I'm the traitor.
ShannonB says
Dear Diary,
My life is crazy! I seriously feel like I don’t have any friends. Everyone seems to think I’m the lamest girl in school and all just because some new girl doesn’t like me. Why they think she is so cool is beyond me. This morning, by the time I got on the bus, Joanie had already turned my life upside down. Everywhere I tried to sit, no one would let me! Even my so-called friend Ruth wouldn’t scoot over. She just nodded her head towards Joanie and shrugged her shoulders as if Joanie had control over her. Then the bus driver started yelling at me to sit down as if I was the one doing something wrong. What a joke! I panicked and threw my backpack over some kid and climbed over him to sit down. I was lucky he didn’t shove me into the aisle.
On top of being tortured on the bus, lunch sucked. I had to sit by myself, which I’m sure didn’t help matters. Loner! Vanessa, Jessica, and Tricia were off campus with the band. There I was, left to pick at my sandwich, mortified with my lack of company. I was sitting on the outdoor stage with my back to the retractable door. Like clockwork Joanie came sauntering up the steps to the stage with her little entourage behind her. She stopped in front of me just waiting for my reaction. When I finally looked up, she kicked my lunch over the edge of the stage. I wish I could have smacked that stupid little grin off her face, but if I tried I probably would have followed my lunch right off the stage. So I just sat there. On top of everything some idiot ran by and trampled what might have been salvageable from my lunch. Maybe a little starvation will do my overly thick thighs some good. Mom says it’s just baby fat and I’ll outgrow it. Wonder when that’ll be?
Somehow I managed to make it through the rest of school without consequence. When the last bell rang, I ran to the bus as fast as I could so that I would have a seat for sure. I managed that feat! But as everyone got on the bus, they glared at me and snickered like they knew something I didn’t. Sure enough, when Joanie walked by she said “I’m gonna kick your ass when we get off the bus!” My heart was racing! I didn’t know what to do, but I didn’t let her know that! I quickly went through the possibilities: run like a baby, get my ass kicked. Ugh! I couldn’t believe what was going on. Why me? I decided to get off the bus and walk very casually home. Somehow I made it inside before Joanie got anywhere near me. My heart was pounding in my chest as I leaned against the closed door. All I could think about was what I was going to do tomorrow?
Tricia J. O'Brien says
07-11-25
Dear Di,
I seriously malfunctioned today.
L. called me Robot Girl again and I stuck my fork in his arm. There was still a pea impaled on the tines.
Before they could grab me, I ran to my hidey-hole. But I can't stay forever. No food. No way out. I'll have to go back and take my punishment. This time I won't piss myself. I promise.
Just because there's a metal plate in my head doesn't mean I'm a droid or anything. I know I repeat myself a lot since the accident, but I was doing it before, too. Seems like the first time I got in trouble was for writing Mr. Forrest's name over and over in my lined notebook. I couldn't help myself. I loved the way he stood in front of class, half leaning on his desk, his eyes hooded when he called our names. His name was like chanting. It pushed out everything else shouting in my head. James.
jamesjamesjamesjamesjamesjamesjamesjamesjamesjamesjamesjamesjamesjames
I love to write it. Still.
But I'd best go back so they never find you. I'll write some more later. If they don't break my fingers.
Love, Me
Norma King says
Dear Diary:
Here goes: My cat’s name is Marshmellow and my parents named me Jonni after my grandfather—Jonni Bree Morrill. Pronounced John-nee Bree Moore-ul. Got it?
I used to like my name, but that was before that nerd in biology asked me if my last name was On-The-Spot. I laughed, but I really hated it. The worst part was I was sure that Erik heard.
His birthday is March 13. I peeked at his chart in the nurses’ office when I was supposed to be filing. The nurse doesn’t even know what I do she’s too busy checking out her Facebook page.
Erik is the closest thing Pinedale has to a rock star. His dad is the new cop in town and all the girls are talking about “getting arrested.” But I DON’T CHASE GUYS—EVER. Let the ravenous wolves divvy him up, I’d just concentrate on school cause that was the only thing that was going to get me out of this retarded town.
But then by some secret design of the Gods, Erik was assigned to be my lab partner in biology.
So back to the nerd. Today, we had our first biology lab. Erik-of-the-Gods asked if the nerd was my boyfriend or something and my face got red hot. I was afraid he was going to say something about jonni-on-the-spot but he didn’t.
Then Mr. Ford pulled some frozen mice out of his freezer and told us we had to skin and stuff um. Was he kidding? I thought I was going to throw up in front of Erik-of-the-Gods but fortunately, like any good superhero would, he came to the rescue and did all the skinning and stuffing.
And this was the best part. He touched my hand as he took the scalpel out of it. It made me tingle so I kept picking up stuff to hand him like alcohol wipes and cotton balls, whatever. I’m sure I could have floated out the door on tingling alone, but then the bell rang.
And here comes the best, best part: Erik-of-the-Gods turned to me and said he had to get to football practice and could I, would I, clean up the lab and that he’d owe me one if I did. And, oh, would I fill out the report, too?
All I could do was squeak yes and nod my head.
He signed his name on the report then handed me the pen…I knew what to do…and our hands touched and it was the Red Sea again all over my face.
And for the really best part: He smiled and said, “Thanks, see you around, Jonni—hey, cool name.”
Just like that. I LOVE biology.
Morgan says
Journal,
Pink used to be my favorite color. It reminded me of the short strips of bubble gum dad used to bring home from the store, back when he used to come home at all. It was the color of my favorite sweater, the thick one, cable-knit, that clung to my thin body and made it look like I had curves. Pink is the color of cheeks brightened by cold and summer toe nail polish. Pink is cheerful and vibrant and fun. Pink was perfect for me. Perfect for the me before this new me. This new, terrified, little me.
The walls of my bedroom are still pink. I’ll have to change that. I’d rather cover them in trash bags than look at that color. My notebooks for school are pink. I won’t have to buy new ones. I’ll probably end up having to drop out now. Great. Not like I liked school anyway. And remember that ring Mom bought me for my birthday? That big sixteenth birthday? Yeah, well, I’ll never wear it again. It’s pink.
Pink used to be my favorite color.
Until it showed up on the pregnancy test in the second floor girl’s bathroom. I remember there was a condom wrapper on the floor. A green one. “Extra ribbed” was written on the side. I kicked it around as I waited for that stupid plastic stick to change color, to tell me my fate. I prayed for blue. That was the “all clear.” But I didn’t get blue. I got pink. A pink smiley face. My face did not smile.
I didn’t frown either though. Didn’t cry. I just rummaged in my purse for a cigarette and walked towards the bathroom window to smoke. Guess I shouldn’t smoke anymore. Guess that was my last one.
My life is over if I keep it. Mom will kick me out, I'll be too busy with the kid to go to school anymore, I won't be able to see my friends. But I don’t want to kill it. And, Jesus, even I could be a better parent than some of the shit out there. I’ve seen it firsthand. So I won’t let somebody else take it. I don’t know. There aren’t any good options. I just…well…
Shit. I don’t even know. I guess I just wish I’d never met the guy.
I’m going to bed. More tomorrow. If I’m still here.
-Cat
Michael says
I just pissed on a stick. Not just any stick, though, but a fancy pink early pregnancy stick. The "gonna get fat stick," if you will. It's sitting on the counter now analyzing my hormones.
The box said to wait two minutes before checking the result but I watched this movie with my mom one time where this woman threw the test in the garbage thinking she was not pregnant and then the second positive line appeared. Not that I believe the garbage they show on Lifetime during my mom's required movie nights.
Jason still isn't responding to my texts but I know he loves me. Sex after Adrian's party proves that. He has always loved me.
Urrrgggghhhh – I hate this waiting!! It's only five minutes but it's like the five minutes during passing period when none of your friends are in the hallway. You look like such a loser and everyone's looking at you wondering why you are standing there by yourself. I'm watching the second hand on my frog clock. I keep thinking it's broken because the damn thing just suspends there before finally moving. A second is a long time.
My phone just buzzed but it wasn't Jason. Whatever. I hate this on and off thing he insists on doing. After three years you'd think he'd just surrender to our love. My mom told me once that boys are stubborn and I guess she's right. For once.
Oooohhhh Froggy's alarm just went off!! I sure hope it's positive so I can shove the pee stick in that SLUT Ashley's face. Ok, diary, I'll be back.
Mira says
Thanks for the contest, Nathan.
——————————
I can’t believe I’m such a wuss. I can’t even kill an earwig.
But it’s a SCARY earwig. It’s HUGE! If I get close, it might run up my leg (!!!) Oh my god! Oh my freakin god!!
Oh my god, I’m such a wuss.
But I don’t want to KILL it. Poor little earwig. Maybe it has an earwig family, and they’ll be sad because their dad never came home. Or mom. See? I even write dad in my diary. Must remember to fight against THEIR conditioning. Must fight. Fight, fight, fight!
Well, I’m fighting with an earwig right now. A teensy tiny earwig. I’m such a wimp. It’s in the bathroom. I stuck a towel under the door so it can’t get out. Joe told me earwigs crawl into your ear when you’re sleeping. Isn’t that something a stupid brother would say? But what if it’s true? What if it’s true?! Do you think that’s true? Who am I asking if that’s true? I guess I’m asking me. Do I think it’s true? Well, I asked you first, do YOU think it’s true? Ha ha. Okay, quit messing around. It’s 2 a.m., there’s an earwig in the bathroom. This is serious.
Okay. I’m going to do it. I’m going to go kill that earwig.
Wish me luck.
……….
……….
Okay. I didn’t kill it. It’s still there. I’m scared. My shoe isn’t long enough. What if it jumps on me? I need something longer, like a broom. But a broom might just hurt it. I don’t want it to suffer. Poor little earwig. Just going along in its little earwig life, looking for an ear to crawl into, and here I come along and MURDER it. Is that fair? Should I have such power, such responsibility over life and death? Is it right that I can kill the earwig, but the earwig can’t kill me? What odd, strange and twisted fate has inextricably intertwined our destinies, this earwig and I?
Okay, that was kind of deep, but I soooo need to go back to bed. I'm going to DO this.
Brb.
……….
……….
It’s gone! It’s GONE. Maybe it got out, and it’s crawling toward me as we speak. Must go find the earwig. I can’t, I can’t. Maybe it’s hiding and it will jump out at me.
This is ridiculous.
……….
……….
Okay, I found the earwig. It was hiding behind the toilet. It must know that it’s doomed. Poor thing. Okay, I’m going back to kill it. Brb.
…………
…………
I can’t kill it. Forget it. Let Joe kill it. This is all his stupid fault. If anyone should be up killing earwigs at 3 a.m. in the morning, it’s my stupid brother.
………..
………..
Joe won’t do it. I refuse to sully these pages with what he said. Suffice it to say my stupid brother is not going to get up to kill an earwig. Fine.
I'll do it myself.
………..
………..
Okay, never mind. I can't do it. I’ll just put cotton in my ears, so it can’t crawl in, and go back to bed. Hope it crawls into Joe’s ears.
All right, little earwig. Go back to your family, and have a happy life. Be free, little earwig, be free.
God, I hope it's not still there in the morning.
Tchann says
Dear Journal,
I went over Rich's house tonight. Mom dropped me off and he greeted me with a kiss after she drove away. She doesn't like seeing us kiss, I don't know why. I'm thirteen! That's something girls do.
We went up his room and…you know. Made out. On his bed, for a few hours. His room is so tiny but at least the bed is normal sized. We had City of Angels on the tv anyway, just as cover. It looked good but my attention was all on Rich. He did that thing with our legs that I love and then he asked me to have sex.
I wonder if I did the right thing. I mean, we've been going out for over a year. But sex is a whole different thing and…well, I don't think I'm ready. I don't know what ready is but I think I'll know when I am. And I know they say guys only have it on the mind but Rich is different, but…I guess he's not that different. I slapped him. I don't think I've ever slapped anyone before. It was like some kind of movie, me moving my hand towards his cheek and his glasses fell off and onto the floor. I don't know if I did it because I was upset or because it felt like the right thing to do. That's why I wonder.
We didn't say much after that, just sat in his room until mom came to pick me up. It felt weird and I think mom knew something was up but I didn't want to tell her. If she thinks I'm slutty because I kiss my boyfriend, I don't want her to know about this. I mean, I still love him. I don't want to stop seeing him. I just don't want to do this. Yet.
I'll talk to him tomorrow at school. I'm sure things will be just fine, really.
TCNC says
Mood: *sigh*
I'm SO over us just "hanging out." I wish I could flip time over like a big pancake and start again. Start with someone new, someone that isn't afraid to hold my hand at school or walk by my locker and actually freaking LOOK at me. You know, acknowledge that I'm alive and stuff. Its horrible keeping us secret, even from Kennedy who I think is starting to catch on. I texted her yesterday that I couldn't come over after school because of our tutoring sessions, she said to me omg how bad can a person be at math???!!! Although I don't even think Kennedy would believe me if I told her about us. Plain, drab monochromatic me with him – star high school quarterback, god's gift to Jameson High School's teen girls (and a few select female teachers). Whatever. How ironic that I could make or break the rest of his life by not helping him pass algebra. No C = no full-ride scholarship.
Right. As if I'd eff that up for him.
Gotta go teach Mr Wonderful the ins and outs of variable and coefficients….BBL
Kathryn says
Dear Diary,
Today I won 1st prize for my painting. Remember the art contest I told you about? The one that I wasn't going to enter? Well, I did. Melanie really wanted me to and, well, you know Melanie. It was a contest for the whole high school. I can’t believe I won! A Grade 9er has never won before.
Mrs Hutton, our art teacher, told us to pick the painting that “says the most.” Mrs Hutton is always going on about art speaking to us. I don’t think art speaks. I think it listens and keeps secrets. Anyway, I couldn't decide which painting to choose so I let Melanie pick. She picked Inside Out. Melanie thinks my paintings are tormented and disturbed. Melanie says disturbed is cool.
Mrs Hutton thinks Inside Out is "abstract," "dark," and "full of meaning." She even called it "apocalyptic." Melanie thinks it looks more like a rugged coastline. Whatever. People see what they want to see.
The problem is that Mrs Hutton wants me to talk next week in class about inspiration and what I think about when I paint. Nobody knows what the painting is really about. Not even Melanie. They’d all freak out. My mother would send me to some stupid shrink and start watching me all the time.
I guess in a way the painting is apocalyptic. My ultimate doom. Sometimes I think my heart will stop. That I’ll choke and die on the bathroom floor and that will be it. The End. It only feels good afterwards. When everything is still and quiet. Total emptiness. Nothing feels better than right after a purge.
So. Inspiration. What am I supposed to say? That I think about what I threw up when I paint? That my barf inspires me?
Chips, cookies, bananas, leftover ravioli, Frosted Flakes.
What if Melanie knew that her rugged coastline was actually chunks of brownies? I should have known better than to eat them. Brownies are always hard to get out. Too thick and gooey. At least the way Mom makes them. It took forever to throw them all up and my throat really hurt the next day. Next time I have to remember to drink more milk. Or eat vanilla ice cream. Milk coats my stomach and makes throwing up easier. But ice cream would make better clouds.
Erin Nolan says
To the nameless, faceless, TBD boy or man I'm going to lose it to:
I'm pretty sure your TBD status is going to be resolved soon (virginity has a natural expiration date, right?), but I'd honestly prefer it if you remained nameless and faceless even after you deflowered me – no, wait, make that even while we're doing it. It's not that I think there's going to be anything wrong with you (I know I have good taste), it's just that at this point, I don't see how there's any way I can look at you as anything more than a means to an end.
I want to be in the club, okay? I want my own story to share, whether it's me seducing you in a bedroom full of lavender scented candles when my parents go away for a weekend, or if one night things just get out of hand after a few too many wine coolers at a football party. Okay, maybe I don't really want it to be so cliché, but I do want to hear a couple of reassuring "OMG! Me too!!!!"s when I describe the event to my friends. I even want to bleed, just so I can be sure it really happened.
I want to have that glow that comes with the first-hand knowledge that I'm a real woman now. You can tell which girls at school have done it by the way they move down the hallway. Their hips seem to swing more. The burden of all this growing up crap is behind them. But what makes me mad is that I can't get there on my own. I need to find you first. And I know that what will happen between us will be a lot more complicated than just one body part going into another.
That's the problem with being the last one in my group of friends to go through this. I know what to expect. Maybe I was jealous of each of them at first, but that jealousy faded quickly when Rachel's guy mysteriously stopped talking to her at school. That's wasn't even the worst one, either. Lisa's First drew naked cartoons of her in every men's room in town, including one in the diner where her dad buys his coffee. And Amanda's guy must have been going for some kind of record, because she caught him with his hand up some cheerleader's skirt less than 24 hours after he'd gotten her into bed by saying he loved her. Amanda hadn’t been stupid to trust him, either. They’d been going out two years before they’d done it.
I know that first love has a terrible track record, and that my first most likely won’t be my last. They aren’t joking when they say you’re going to take (whatever’s left of) my innocence. But I still really need to know; how am I supposed to give my body to you when I know I can’t trust you with my heart?
Liz says
Lark,
I’m sure you know by now that Nic’s in love with me and you pretty much hate my guts. I don’t blame you. If the situation were reversed, I’d be poking voodoo dolls in your likeness with needles. Repeatedly. But that’s okay. I’d rather you hate me than him. Nic never intended to hurt you. He held on until he knew for sure that he’d never be able to love you. And he wanted to. Trust me. Sometimes when things get too hard for him, I’m certain he still wishes he could, that it would be your hand in his instead of mine, that everything would go away and he could just be “normal.”
To be honest, I don’t know why he chose me. I’m just as baffled as you are. I mean, I am a guy, so I guess I have that advantage. Maybe it was because I’ve been there for him as he figured out his sexuality; maybe it’s just that he wanted someone he felt comfortable with the first time he was with a boy. I don’t know. I try not to dwell on it and enjoy it, rather than worrying about when he’ll realize he could do a lot better.
I know it must look like I’ve stolen him and that you can’t trust me, but I want you to know that in an odd way, I understand what you’re going through. I watched him for years thinking that he’d never be mine. I know what it’s like to sit next to him in class and long to touch him, to be the one he kisses in the hallway, the one that makes his gorgeous eyes light up. I’ve known how awful it is to know you’re not the one he’s dreaming about. I’ve known the pain of hearing him say “I love you” to someone else.
So…I understand why you hate me. But I’m writing this letter because I want you to know that I also understand how amazing he is. I don’t want to screw this up. I don’t want to take him for granted. And I will do everything I can to make sure he knows how amazing he is, too.
Lark, you are so important to him. He hated keeping this from you. He wanted to talk to you about this all along because he knows he can trust you and because you keep him calm like no one else can. As soon as you feel you can, he’ll need you back in his life. I can tell you from experience, coming out will be the hardest thing Nic has ever done. Even the strongest of us can’t avoid the pain and heartbreak that comes with it. Some of his closest friends will turn away. Maybe even his family. He needs you, and selfish as it sounds, I need you too. I can’t do this alone.
Brad
T.L. Kenworth says
Dear Diary,
I’m leaving. Today, I return to Tennessee and all that I hold dear–and hope is still there for me. Leaving in the first place was a big mistake. Some people might think I’m trying to hide, as my way to deal with the scars, with the horror of what’s happened but the truth is, I belong there, I always have. Meeting Silver was the best thing that ever happened to me, though I could have foregone the Hollows, the death of my mother at the fiends’ hands, and a game of terror played out by a madwoman. I can almost see him as I write this, free, noble, a hero among heroes. If it hadn’t been for him–
No, I won’t think of that, of how close to death I really came last summer. Most people whisper about what I look like now, how much I’ve changed. The cuts and bruises have healed but I lost something in myself. Maybe for the best. I was so into beauty and how it defined me, I forgot that there were people out there that needed a hand reached out to them in comfort. My mother was one of these, I think. She’d gotten so far off track in her life, to the point that she left her family behind for another man. Talk about awkward at the time. I still don’t understand her choice but I’d rather live with it than have her dead.
Reed and Adrianna got married. The ceremony was beautiful and I cried to see them so happy, so alive. I remember the day when they almost missed this chance to be together, when the Hollows nearly wiped out a future for them. I wondered as I watched them under the trellis, if we were meant to be. Fear and terror brought me into your life and you rescued me from that but in the light of day, is there a place for a prince? It is this thought that keeps a lump in my throat. Wondering, wishing. Do you do the same?
I remember the depth to your eyes, like looking into a canyon, knowing that I would soar in your presence but not sure how to avoid the sharp edges. How can life be so full of wonder but underneath be a razor awaiting a killer’s hand? Do you forgive me? For her. She was your best friend, your mentor. I know how much she meant to you, though not in the way she wanted. There is that that I hold onto. Looking back, I don’t think anything could have changed her path.
I shudder when I think of the way she held that blade, the way it kept dipping down, biting into my flesh. For too long, I’ve dreamed of that night. I know I need to leave it behind me, to go on and with you beside me, I ‘m sure I can. So be there, please, I need you.
Natalie Campisi says
I'm so pathetic that I can't stop Googling "Ketchikan" just so maybe I can find a picture of me with some stupid tourist I sold a stupid fake bear paw keychain to at the shitty job I have in poor, miserable Alaska.
They take so many goddamn pictures I'm bound to be in one. It's like they just discovered a new species the way they take one picture after another. And then they all ask the same questions. Sometimes I really can't believe they all ask the same questions. Is the water safe to drink? Well, let's see miss, it comes from a freaking GLACIER, what do you think?
A few times I told the people that it wasn't safe at all and then sold them bottled water at $3 a pop. At first I felt bad, but then I figured if they're rich enough to afford to cruise all the way to this shitty town from wherever the heck they come from then they probably can afford bottled water. I told my mom I did that and she thought it was funny. She told her friend, Ginger, a waitress she works with who's missing at least three teeth, she was proud of me for being so smart. She gets a real kick when I find pictures of me on the internet with some tourist. So far I've found three.
Three seems like nothing, but considering I've looked at probably a thousand or more photos it's pretty cool when I find myself. The last picture I found was taken two years ago when I was fourteen and just started working at KETCHIKAN KEEPSAKES. I know, I think it's a corny name too. Whatever. The asshole who runs it, Larry Billy is a pretty corny dude – he wears a coonskin cap like some fat Daniel Boone or woodchuck hunter or something. Anyhow, my hair was real long and stringy at the time and I had pretty bad acne. I actually hate the picture. But I remember the lady who took it, she was ugly I guess but had a real friendly face, kind of like a cool teacher.
It was weird, she insisted on taking my picture holding up a hand-painted sign that just said "Ketchikan, Alaska." My mom said I look like my dad in the picture. I never saw no picture of my dad so I tried to imagine me looking like, you know, an adult. It's kind of weird looking at yourself trying to imagine what your own dad looks like, you know? I don't think mom meant it as a compliment or anything. It's cool though. The really weird thing is, apart from the goofy pictures I've taken with some of my buddies and my ex-girlfriend, these three pictures are the only ones I have of myself. I never even had any baby pictures taken. I guess it's kind of weird that a stupid stranger would want a picture of me.
rebekahg22 says
Sun's Journal:
It’s the end of the world. Literally. And here I am, about to go out into the woods, armed with my bow and a knife. If I’m lucky, I’ll take out another “soul-sucker” or two. I’m sick of being scared, and sick of seeing darkness. I want my life back. If only they wouldn’t have come, I’d be able to have a normal life. But there will be no boyfriends, no dances, no makeup, not for me. But I’m alive, so that’s something, right?
Who am I kidding? This isn’t living, this is surviving. All we have left are our memories and the rubble that used to be a town. Five whole years, we’ve hidden in the cave, trying to stay alive, me, my grandpa, and eight others. I keep holding out hope that we’ll find more survivors, that we’ll be able to take back our world. Mischa says I’m dreaming—that things will never be what they were. But I don’t believe that, I can’t. The only thing keeping me going is hope, my humanity. So I’ll keep going into the woods, hunting them down. Because for every one of them that dies, it means one more chance that I don’t.
Shit, Grandpa’s calling from the main cavern. Time to hunt!
Renee Pinner says
Marcia got to stay out ‘til 12 again last nite. Man, I hate her. I had to be in by 10. Mom said it wasn't like I was on a date or anything.
Marcia, Marcia, Marcia! That is all I friggin’ hear any more. Mom thought Marsha’s report card was FANTABULOUS. Mine was okay, but, um…why wasn’t that B+ an A? Yeah. FML!
Even in English, Mrs. Taylor said to me, “Jan, you really ought to talk to Marcia about these essay assignments. She was always so good at them.” Marcia and Ms. Taylor can take a flying leap. Man, I wish I had the nerve to tell Mrs. Taylor what I think of her and her friggin’ essay assignments. I’d write a whole essay on it. Better yet, I wish I could tell good ‘ole Mrs. Taylor the crap Marcia used to talk behind her back. I’d luv to see her face then!
Even, Mark is all about Marcia now. I can’t believe I ever had a crush on his freckled face. I worked so hard for MONTHS. Did you read that? MONTHS! Finally, I got his attention. Day after day in the tightest sweaters I could manage without Mom, tsk, tsking and sending me back to my room. Why doesn’t she every notice Marcia’s slutty get ups?! I even avoided ALL food that just MIGHT get stuck in my braces so I wouldn’t have any embarrassing moments in front of him. What a joke. He came over for the second time last Friday. We watched a movie. I couldn’t get Peter or Cindy to leave us alone, but that was okay. At least he was holding my hand and still pretty much talking to me. Then in comes Marcia. Man I hate, her.
IT IS JUST NOT FAIR!!
Bill Greer says
I got assigned to the same English project as Jenny today. We'll be on the same team! Mrs. Nestle had us get into our little groups and talk about which Shakespeare play we'd choose. I scored the seat right next to Jenny, but I could hardly think with her being so close. Her feminine scent almost overwhelmed me. I wanted to lean toward her until our shoulders touched. But it also meant I couldn't look at her without turning my head. Hard to sneak peeks that way.
I still did, though. I could see her large bazoongas out of the corner of my eye, and I couldn't stop trying to get a good look at them. Not that I haven't stared at them a million times before. Bazoongas. Jenny would laugh if she heard me use that word. Would she use a creepy laugh that meant she was too good for me or a sweet laugh that meant she found that funny? Bazoongas. Jake calls them tits, but that seems too nasty or profane for someone as nice as Jenny. My dad always calls them melons, but they're not fruit. Mom says breasts or boobs. I like bazoongas. It adds a little pizzazz without sounding mean.
Jake gets away with his smug tits comments because he's perfected the art of acting like everyone else is beneath him. Which for some god-forsaken reason draws girls by the dozens. I don't get it. He treats them like crap and there's always another one waiting in the wings. I would think less of Jenny if she swooned over some guy like Jake.
Jenny could have her pick of any guy she wants. She never seems to have a boyfriend, though. The guys who tried and got shot down call her the ice queen or stone cold bitch. She's never been anything but nice to me. Maybe next group meeting I'll sit across from her and hope to catch a view of that inviting smile. Sitting next to her, though, tingling with anticipation that we might bump or touch hands is so exciting. That seems lame now that I wrote that. Maybe Jake is right. I'm just a wuss.
A guy can dream, though. Right?
The Things We Carried says
Dear Diary,
I am not sure I will be writng here much longer. It seems in MY life things only go from bad to worse. How much more am I supposed to be able to take? I can't! I just CAN'T!
I keep thinking about how Mr. Henesy said that suicide is a sin after Mom died; that ugly snear on his disgusting old face as he drew the word "sin" out as if he was talking about something dirty like sex. I HATE him for talking about my mom like that. I HATE HIM! I wish he was dead. I wish I was dead.
Josh won't even LOOK at me at school anymore. He pretends I am invisible. How can he DO that? How can he act like he doesn't see me at all? I don't understand what happened! I keep thinking about the way he used to look at me. What about that night by the lake? He pulled my shirt off, and didn't even look down. He just stared into my eyes and kept whispering that he loved me! He LOVED me! How could he act like I am nothing now? I hate him. I hate him! But I know I will never find another guy like him again. I knew it was too good to be true that a guy like him could actually love a girl like me…
I hate myself! I hate my life! I hate my mom for killing herself and leaving me here alone. I hate Josh for acting like I am dead!Diary, I can't write here much longer because I won't be here. I won't be here by morning.
Karen says
So, I’ve found the love of my life. Tall, dark, handsome—check. Coke, not Pepsi—check. Laughs at my jokes—double check. And, by God, he likes me too.
But damn it, he’s dead.
Oh, not vampire still walking the earth dead. Or zombie but still kind of cute dead cuz his ears haven’t fallen off yet. Teriq Helou is just plain garden variety dead. Which would be fine if I were some normal person, cuz I would never have met him seeing as how he died two years ago and we just moved here to Desolation Valley a month ago.
But thanks to my super-crappy, wouldn’t-wish-it-on-my-worst-enemy “gift” (thanks again, Mom), I did “meet” him—or the ghost/soul/spirit that was all that was left of him—and damn it, I liked him. Way-too-much a lot.
And in the usual craptastically crappy way of my life, I have to find a way to get rid of him. Solve his problem, break his link to earth, send him to the great beyond. Never see him again.
See all that red spilling on the page? That’s my heart breaking open and emptying out.
What if I didn’t do my duty? What if I pretended I was just Psychic Girl who happened to see dead people? Tariq wouldn’t have to know it was my job to send him home to the angels. I could just keep him as my boyfriend. Okay, so kissing would be weird and I’m surely never having his baby. But doesn’t a poor motherless child like me deserve a little love in my life?
Blech. Who am I fooling? Even if I never told him the truth (no chance of that since I’m, like, suckingly honest), there’s that pain-so-bad-feels-like-guts-ripped-out thing that happens when I don’t follow through (thanks again, Mom, you couldn’t have told me?). And I’m a wimp when it comes to pain.
So, yeah, tomorrow, I’ll be digging around the Internet. Find out how/why/where Tariq died. Clear up all the misunderstandings, tie up the loose ends of his life. Say goodbye.
Then cry for at least a week.
I love you, Tariq.
marce merrell says
Dear Diary,
I am not who you think I am. You can erase all those assumptions about my intelligence, my fashion sense and, especially, about my taste in guys.
I'm not suicidal. I'm not.
I'm a realist.
It was too easy to open the back door of his car and even easier to take off my heels so they wouldn't punch a hole in his upholstery.
He didn't ask me if he could call me later. Hell, he didn't even look me in the eyes.
I don't blame you for punishing me with your silence. I should have known better.
I need to clean out my closet.
Robert Michael says
Dear Diary,
I got a new obsession today. Surprisingly, it doesn't have anything to do with my hair.
I found out that Farrah has a brother. I sorta met him today while I was visiting Farrah. He just sits in his room, brooding, it seems. When I passed by his bedroom while walking down the hall to Farrah's I noticed him. He was reading some graphic novel, his bangs hanging down over his eyes. He looked up at me as I stared. I was so embarrassed. I just stared at him and said "Hi." He pushed his bangs to the side and I thought I was going to stand there with my hand raised forever like I was taking an oath or something.
His eyes were chocolate. It's silly, but I get hungry just thinking about them. He barely noticed me though. My new obsession? Spend as much time with Farrah as possible without her catching on that I am using her to get to her brother. For some reason, I don't even feel guilty. I think she would do the same to me. We don't really like each other. In ten years, I probably won't even think about her. Unless she's my sister-in-law! WOOT!
Leslie McCrary says
Dear Diary,
Would you do me a favor? Tell them, okay? I need you to be the one to tell them. They’ll come looking for me. They’ll find you. So tell them. Tell them I tried. I really tried. Tell them I listened. Tell them I was strong. Tell them I couldn’t get away. Tell them I waited. Tell them I watched. Tell them I never asked for any of this. Tell them I wished I was normal. Tell them I wondered if they did too. But tell them I’ll be fine. Tell them I’m not worried. Tell them to not be afraid or bitter. Tell them it’s important. Tell them nobody’s perfect. Tell them I never wrote Mr. Douglas that thank you note. Tell them I meant to finish the dishes last night. Tell them there were a lot of things I left undone. Tell them I’m sorry. Tell them to remember how much I love daisies and buttered toast. Tell them the smell of Uncle Mike always made me nauseous. Tell them I once dreamt I could fly. But tell them it all doesn’t matter now. Tell them I’m tired. Tell them I love them and I always have. Tell them it’s the truth. Tell them I mean it. They trust you. Just them tell, okay? Tell them one last time for me.
Selestial says
January 6,
Remember those New Year's resolutions we made at the party less than a week ago?
– Write in journal every day
– Turn in homework on time
– Tell Missy Parkington just what I thought of her
– Go on a date with Brian Ventimiglio
– Ask Brian to prom
Well, I think this is the fastest I've been able to confirm the success of failure of all my goals.
1 – This is my first entry since I wrote the damn resolutions New Year's Day. Why? Because I suck. I never really wanted to keep a journal. Everyone else just said how great they were, and I thought it was worth a try.
Result = FAILURE
2 – First day back to school was Monday. Had a book report due in English that I wrote the first day of break. It was done. And it was sleeping in all nice and cozy deep inside my laptop. Next year's resolution is to procrastinate on homework. Do it at the last minute and stuff it in my backpack. That should work out better.
Result = FAILURE
3 – Missy got in my face after practice today, so I gave her a verbal beat-down to end all beat-downs. The words "slutty bitch" were involved. She cried. Other team members cheered. She had it coming. I felt better about myself than I had in a long time.
Result = SUCCESS!!!!!!
4 – Feeling better lasted all of about thirty seconds before Brian stormed out of the gym and yelled at me. This time the words "heartless bitch" were involved. So were "I wish I never had to see you again." He walked out of the building holding hands with Missy and telling her everything would be all right.
Result = I suppose it might still happen, but I think I slit my own throat here. FAILURE
5 – See #4.
Result = IMPENDING FAILURE
So, after this lovely week, I've come to a couple conclusions. First, Brian and I just weren't meant to be (which sucks). Second, journals are stupid. We're done.
That One American Girl says
Today was a good day.
I know. I know. Insert lame Invasion of the Body-Snatchers cliché joke here. But it’s true.
I went to see them. I thought… I don’t know… Maybe they’d give me more reason to hate them. Honestly, I wanted them to. I wanted to watch those bastards, and see they didn’t care, and rip them a gaping new one, and it would have been perfect. They would have deserved it. I REALLY wanted it.
But they were really nice and so grateful and… I don’t know… I guess it lessened the hurt a little. I think.
SO then I started thinking about what we did. It didn’t seem like much at the time, but it really was awesome and epic. It cost me more than I was willing to pay, but seeing them… I don’t know… I think I get it now.
It wasn’t about us. I mean, yeah, it started that way, and I kinda felt like, in the end, it was, because we paid and they didn’t and why should that be when we did it for them and karma should have thought of that and even if it didn’t it wasn’t right because in the end we did it for right reasons and that’s what counts or at least it SHOULD and this is one hell of a run-on sentence so I’ll stop.
But it was bigger than us. It was about saving people who couldn’t save themselves. And now that I’ve seen how they live, I feel better. I did that. WE did that. And a lot of people will be better off because of us.
So… not a great day. I still miss You-Know-Who. I still want to visit the graveyard and make-believe things ended differently. Which I know is a strange place to do that. Shut up.
But what we did was appreciated. They acknowledge the sacrifice. And it was worth it.
Yeah. I’ll call it a good day.
Mackenzie says
Saturday, March 22nd 1942
Dear Rick,
Please come home. Everyone is worried about you, mama won’t knit anymore and papa just sits around all day. Why is this war tearing our family apart? Rudy thinks that his elder step-brother is brave for enlisting in the war. We didn’t tell him that you are fighting for Americans. Why are you fighting for them and not us? Papa says that the Germans are going to win against the Americans and that you’ll be killed in a battle one of these days.
Papa is going around calling you ‘his idiot stepson who doesn’t know who the real winners are’ now. He says that you have shamed us and refuses to let Rudy or me out of the house. Herr Mulheim comes around sometimes to help us escape the terrible tension in the house; he says it’s not right for a 16-year old girl and a 9-year old boy to have to live with this. Last time you wrote he had still been in battle. He was terribly wounded and had to be sent home. They say half of his face looks like a skull now. I cannot say because he always wears a mask over it. It’s odd, but at least he was allowed to come home.
I will never send this letter so I know that what I will write next will only stay between this paper and I. The truth is I love you far more than I should Rick. People wouldn’t understand, I don’t think. You are my step brother but people take that the wrong way. They don’t understand that you’re not of papa’s blood. That your mother is my step mother and we never knew your father.
You are only 3 years older than I, but remember how you used to tease me to death about it? Or that you were giving a good hiding from Frau Huberman because you wrote about me in an assignment about who our heroes were? Everyone else wrote that Herr Hitler was their hero. I expected you to write about your American president. But why did you write about me? I’ll never understand. I think that’s the day I began to fall in love with you.
I’ll never understand why your mama brought you here from America-life was so much better there for you. Papa never would explain it to me. I can’t help but be glad for it. Thank you for all those English lessons you gave me in our basement. That way, even if papa or Rudy do find this letter then they can’t read it.
I pray for you every day, even though in your last letter to me you said that there was not God out there in the trenches. Because in my heart I still believe in miracles and God is the greatest magician of all.
Your loving sister,
Lesiel
christopher says
I must have this doughnut. It calls to me with its chocolatey siren voice. The sprinkles are particularly seductive, and I cannot think of that hole without shuddering. I must have it. I will pillage it. I will storm its ramparts like Atilla the Hun. I will possess it, because it has possessed me.
I wonder where the rest of Mrs. Pinckney’s ninth grade class are now? They are fools, fools, I tell you! Ever since I began attending Heinrich Himmler High last fall, I suspected something was wrong. I knew it! Yet, every one of them insisted on taking that accursed ballroom dancing class. Foxtrots, sambas, the Argentinian tango. Bah! Slinking across the dance floor in sequined tights will not save them now. I can still see the instructor Rodrigo, with his waxed moustache, smirking with that smirk of his. I cannot stand his snapping fingers, his tapping toe and his off-hand comments about Paris.
But none of this matters any longer.
Tonight, it must be tonight. I think I have finally figured out how to escape. The guards have grown lax. The German Shepherds seem accustomed to my scent. Besides, they have become diverted with the opossums. I knew the opossums would come through! If I can escape by seven pm sharp, then I will be on time for dinner. Weng-Li, our Swedish cook, always prepares meatloaf on Thursday nights. I have not missed a Thursday dinner in twelve years. He says it is an ancient Swedish recipe, originally prepared on the naked bellies of octogenarian goatherders. It is delicious.
I must concentrate. First, I will deal with this doughnut. Then, the locked door.
The Vampire Years says
Just learned of this on the final afternoon and I'm on the clock, so an entry is unlikely. But a cool idea just came floating by, snagged it out of the air and now it's mine. Thank you for that. 🙂
Dan H. says
March 6, 2009
It’s official, there are no gay boys in my gym class; though they are all as stupid as I already knew. I hope this gets me out of gym forever. Now that the embarrassment has mostly passed here’s what happened.
I hid in the back row as usual when we lined up for volleyball. I couldn’t use cramps for an excuse ‘cause I used that all last week. If I had Mr. Greene instead of Mrs. Portman it might work; Monique says he’s too embarrassed to question it. So I would have to play until I could fake an injury.
For some reason Mrs. Portman thought we’d all play harder or have more fun if we had a tournament with everyone watching each other; playing to nine. Lose hard; lose fast – my new strategy. There are always enough girls looking to dog so I got on the best (worst) team.
With everyone in the bleachers laughing at us, we took the court and my reputation was changed forever. Thank God no one had a camera phone. I hope. Little boys’ imaginations are bad enough and every one of them in the school is churning hard, I guarantee.
The bleachers were on the other side of the nets from us, full, with a mostly boy team in front of them. Mrs. Portman decided my all-girl team should switch sides with them. (I guess so the boys in the stands would stare at our butts instead of our bouncing, well, ). No problem. It would be nine serves and out.
Note to all girls: when ducking under a volleyball net stay away from the side poles. Or at least, don’t run. I never run. Why did I run?!
So, I duck under the rope that holds the net to the pole and somehow the back of my shirt-neck snags a metal hook. I’m not going super fast, but too fast for a maroon poly-cotton blend with a little fraying. As soon as I feel the tug I kinda twisted to see what happened but lost my balance (I know, shocker!) and fell face-first to the floor. My shirt didn’t go with me in tact. It tears down my neck, takes a hard right under my armpit, shoots diagonally across my left breast to my right hip, and waves like a . . . waving thing.
At first there’s just a gasp from the girls but that’s immediately lost in the roar of laughter and cheers from the boys. 27 boys, none gay. I made a quick exit, clutching the remnants of shirt around me, but not without showing why Mom really needs to buy me that sports bra.
If this does get me out of gym I may have to do a repeat performance in Algebra. Mr. Munger won’t mind.
JustineDell says
Damn the Gods and all the wrath they toss upon me!
Okay, so maybe that’s a bit dramatic and if my mother ever read this, I would be grounded for an eternity and possibly sent to a nunnery. But, you know, that’s how I feel. From the pit of my soul to the tips of my toes I feel that someone is out to get me. Namely, the pop-tart Stacy Lancaster and her swooning ways towards my brother. Doesn’t she see that he doesn’t like her and her too shiny hair, globbed on lipstick, and fake smile? And her shrilly laugh makes me want to rip off my ears! She just needs to crawl back in her black hole and take her underlings with her. Those girls, that group of hideous and self-righteous girls think they know everything. They have done nothing more but ruin my already pathetic life and make me want to scratch their eyeballs out with my bitten off fingernails.
Damn, damn, triple damn mediocre high school life. Well, at least my mother would be proud that I haven’t yet used the Lord’s name in vein. 50 Hail Mary’s may not be enough in mom’s mind if she knew what I wanted to do to those girls. I should be ashamed of it myself, I know. But look at what they did to my best friend! My only friend. And now that puppeteer Stacy is trying to get her claws into my own brother? Over my dead body.
And then there’s Chad. It’s too bad that he has gotten all wrapped up in the cronies’ state of mind. What was I thinking when I let him take me out? Oh, yes – I remember…I was thinking about the way he used to protect me. The way he used to smile in my direction and laugh at my not-so-funny jokes in math class. The way it seemed that he could make all my troubles go away and sleep at night without a hint of fear. For the life of me I will never figure out what has gotten into him. Why he turned his back on me and chose to run with Stacy’s minions. There’s part of me that doesn’t care and thinks its better that way. The other part, the darker one with a hole ripped through the core, wants him to remember the laughs, the joys, and the tears that we shared just last spring. Too bad in the blink of an eye he evolved into heartless coward, who shuns my very glare.
Shame them all with a million curses that I’m not allowed to say. One day I will break free from this shell and show them all that I am not who I seem. Hear me now, those who wish to cause me harm, that I am a force to be reckoned with. One day you shall all see…
JC Webprints says
3/19/1994 – like it matters.
What can I write about today that I haven't already written a hundred times? My life still sucks; just like yesterday, and most likely, tomorrow.
I walked to the bus stop with Jacob, just like always. He called me fat, literally poked at me, and made me look stupid in front of Abbey… again. I don't know why I hang out with him, still. I guess friends is better than no-friends, even if they do keep me around just to make fun of.
I got to hang out with Abbey at lunch today. She is always so nice to me, and she is so cute! I just wish she would give me a chance. She says that I'm too nice to date, and that we're "just friends." Why is it that nice guys end up as friends, and the bastards get the girls? I don't get it. It's not in my nature to "play the game." I just want to be authentically nice to a girl, and have her fall in love with me for it.
Maybe not being fat would help, too. I know being ugly sure doesn’t.
I just feel like there is this wall between me and the world, and I don’t know why. I just want to be nice, have friends, and be loved. Why is that so wrong? Why should I be forced to cut myself to FEEL, when the jerks out there get all of the attention.
You know, it’s not even physical with Abbey. I mean, she is very cute, and I love staring at her… but I just want to be WITH her. I would love to just hold hands and talk… or just cuddle on the couch and watch a movie… Doesn’t that mean something?
I dunno. Like I said. Today sucked. Tomorrow doesn’t look much better.
RJC says
November 14
That’s it. I’ve had enough. I seriously can’t take this anymore. I’m sitting here in his class right now, watching him, listening to him talk about Napoleon, and I’m seriously going insane.
This game ends today. I have to tell him.
I don’t care what anyone thinks. Julia suspects, I know. She’s always waiting for me after class, pretending to want to walk with me. She’s really just watching, trying to sniff something out with her insect feelers. Ugh. Can’t stand her.
Well anyway, I don’t even care, I’m still going to tell him. Today. Afterschool.
We just can’t go on like this anymore. I know he knows. He knows something’s going on. I can tell by the way his eyes linger on me longer than anyone else, the way he can’t help but smile at me when I come into class. And today, when I turned in my quiz, I got right next to him and leaned over all low to set the paper on his desk, so he could smell my perfume and see down my shirt, and I swear his breath was totally trembling.
He wants me. I know it. He knows it. And I’m going to make him say it to me.
Damn, just writing the words makes my hand shake.
He’ll probably be freaked out that he’ll lose his job or something. But it doesn’t have to be that way. We can be careful. We’ll never do anything at school. We’ll just meet in town in the middle of the night or something.
Okay, I seriously can’t even breathe right now. Do I really have the guts to do this? . . . Yes. It’s worth it. Anyway, I don’t have a choice. I either tell him now, or go crazy and kill myself or something.
I’m going to do it. I have to.
Wish me luck.
Liesl says
I know it’s a sin to wish someone dead, but fifty times a day I imagine large, heavy objects falling from the sky and landing on Daryl “the Dip.” Is it possible that Mom could have married a bigger loser? This morning Daryl the Dip “flexed” his hairy white arms and said, “Constance, may you be so lucky to get something so good as this.” He spread his lips to show the fat gap in his teeth. Vomit in my breakfast.
After dinner he told me to help my Mother and wash the dishes. I told him how she likes doing it, that it relaxes her and I had homework.
He told me God made daughters so they could help their mother. I told him that’s what husbands were for and wasn’t it nice of God to send him to her? Shouting. Slamming things. Mom cried. Whatever. The man chaps my hide like the Gobi Desert.
I’ve been praying that he discovers cancer and he’s gone in a week, or at least that he trips over his golf clubs and breaks his hairy white arms and they have to be amputated. But these prayers are sacrilege and I’m really not a violent person. Is it a righteous prayer to ask God to take Daryl up like he did Moses or whoever? Probably not. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for God.
And double-curse on the Dip. Now I can’t even look at a hot boy and want him, can’t flirt, can’t get a tingly feeling in my stomach looking at those tan, muscled arms, because I know that in twenty years they will just be flabby, hairy, and white. Vomit everywhere.
ariana says
testing
Shonna says
Dear New Diary,
My stepbrother is selling my old diaries on eBay! I’m gonna kill him…if I don’t die of embarrassment first. He’s such a jerk and “our parents” are taking his side. He says he has NO IDEA what I am talking about. He says, “How can I have an eBay account anyway? I’m underage.”
Yeah, right. He’s got an account AND he has my diaries. Everyone at school knows.
Worse. He’s bidding against me. We’re up to $47 with 3 days left.
He’s going to take back all the money I stole from his iTouch savings. Clever. He’s clever in his jerkiness. He better give my diaries back when I win the auction. Otherwise…oooh, I know what I’ll do. Bring it on step-bro!
just Joan says
I'll be brave and enter one of the poems from my high school journal (poetry was the only journaling I did). I'll post it here exactly as I wrote it (punctuation was not my friend).
This was after a fight with a boyfriend (duh).
Today, the hurting words you threw
Struck deep, and so I hurt you too.
Our fighting wasn't over yet,
But the first brick had just been set.
Our anger filled the little room
And formed into a cloud of doom.
The cloud was there for many days.
We could not feel our love's soft rays.
Our anger we will not erase.
The bricks keep falling into place.
Each time we fight, more bricks are laid,
'Til we can't break the wall we've made.
goldilocks says
Here we are again. Just you and me. There’s been a lot of that lately. I, in my room alone. You, listening to me ramble and weep. Only you can hear my silent tears and for that I am sorry. You’re more than a captive audience. It’s comforting, you know, you here with me. I know that we don’t have a lot of time left together. On most days, I’m happy about that; sure that I’m making the right decision for the both of us. In days gone by, I’ve felt secure, confident even. The bravado is waning. The self-assured façade is cracking.
Today, sitting on my bed, surrounded by pictures of family and friends, I’m feeling sad. Sad that I won’t be able to show you the parts of my life that are important, the pieces that put me together, the people who love me. Today, I’m feeling a little disconnected. There’s “them” and there’s “us” and there’s just “me”. The clock is ticking and I know that I’ll be left by myself soon enough. No one else deserves to be here with me, I’ve done this to myself.
I look outside my window and see my brother and sister in the backyard. They are so innocent. They swing and laugh and they look at life through such open eyes. I miss that freedom. I miss that innocence. They have no idea what is really happening with me. They assume that my moodiness and self-imposed isolation comes from the fact that I am fifteen. Then, I hear my mother downstairs, talking to friends on the PTA board. She’s going on about the award I won last month for writing an essay on “leadership”. If she only knew the truth. Who would want to follow me? “Do as I say, not as I do” should have been the title of my essay.
I see my siblings, I hear my mother, but it’s my father that I think of most. I picture the look in his eyes when he sees his little girl growing before him. It’s a mixture of fear and pride and expectation. I thought that I had earned their respect. I’ve worked so hard to be perfect. Disappointment is the worst form of punishment.
I don’t know what’s worse, having others look at you with disappointed eyes or having that feeling come from within. I’m sorry that I wasn’t stronger, that I wasn’t prepared to fight for you. I only know what I can do for myself and for them. It’s selfish, I know, but it is what has to be done. I can’t let my family lose their innocence, not just yet.
I have to write this down, in black and white. I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to pretend that you never happened to me. My written words are my proof. If I could have written them in blood, I would have, because it would have been our blood. I am so sorry.
Jennifer says
TDS
Dear Diary,
I’m starting eighth grade with a mullet. I look like that Disney chick’s dad on that show that Marcy watches. Speaking of Marcy, I know you’re reading this so I can’t swear like I usually do because you’ll tell Mom. I don’t know how you keep finding my journal, but you do. I hate you so much. Yeah, run and tell mom that, too.
Back to my #$@* mullet. Mom’s friend Nancy was supposed to just trim the sides and keep the back long. But she was gabbing to Mom instead of paying attention to my head and she lopped off a bunch of hair at my ear! At least she didn’t go all Van Gogh on me! (You probably don’t even get that reference, Marcy. Only Nina, who is an artist extraordinaire, would understand it.) Then Nancy whacked the other side to make it look symmetrical. When Nina saw it she said that I look like one of the pictures on that yearbook-me site. Like from 1980 or whatever.
Nina thinks I should get it cut really short and streak it hot pink here and there and start 8th grade with old-school punk attitude. I wish I felt brave enough to do that. Nina would do it. Heck, Nina’s so brave she would probably shave her head. I’m going to have to find someone to fix my hair. The thing is, I have no money for a haircut and neither does Mom and that’s why Nancy cut it in the first place. You know whose fault this is, don’t you? Who else? DAD’s. We’re always broke because of him. If he’d get off his tush (I really hate you Marcy because I sound like a dork without my swear words) and send Mom money when he’s supposed to, then we wouldn’t have had to use Nancy. At least Mom’s hair turned out okay. She has a cute blunt cut and thick dark hair. I have her hair color, but it’s frizzy or fuzzy or curly, depending on what the #$% weather is like. Yeah, I have a curly mullet. So not cool!
Why does school have to start this week? I need at least another month to grow more hair and hide. The summer went by too fast. I have nothing to show for it except for my stupid #$% haircut. I didn’t even get a tan. Nina’s family went to Florida and Nina came back looking more awesome than usual. She’s so lucky. She's especially lucky because she doesn't have a snoopypants sister like I do.
I’m putting a big fat TDS at the top of this page. That’s a code word, Marcy. It means “This Day Sucks.” I haven’t had an “AD” or “Awesome Day” code in a long time. And no, “sucks” isn’t a swear word since Mom says it all the time. Gotta go. Mom’s calling me to dinner. Smells like Hungarian goulash. Again. TDS!
Yours,
Katy
Ryan says
01/02/2010
I could have, should have, had him. Christy dumped him, slammed him – publically. It was like nothing I had ever seen, nothing I want to see again.
He was devastated. Oh, I was there, watching, waiting, hoping. I should have comforted him. I could have been there to hold his head to my shoulder, wipe the tears from his cheeks, build him back up.
Sigh.
I wasn't.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
He turned from her, slammed his fist into the wall, and looked right at me. That was my moment and I flinched away.
Two years I have been waiting, watching, dreaming. Two years of broken relationship after broken relationship. Someday he will turn my way and I won't back down.
Today should have been that day. Instead Amber was there, Amber the skank. OH!!!
Didn't he learn anything from Jessica, Vicki, Amanda, Joslen, Elizabeth, or any of the others? They’re not right for him, none of them. Only me. Only me.
And Amber? What? Why? How? Ewe! How could they hook up?
That's okay, I will have him. I'll make him use mouthwash and shower, but I will have him.
I will break them up too, just like I did with all the rest.
Emily Hinchey says
Dear Diary,
I spent the night of the homecoming dance babysitting.
The Farley kids were my dates. Mandy, my best friend, was supposed to help me babysit, but Josh asked her to the dance last minute. Mandy can’t stand Josh, but I’ve liked him since last year. I’m an inch taller than Josh, though, so he probably thinks of me as Amazon Woman. Whatever. At least the Farleys pay well. I’m saving up to be on the tennis team.
I started babysitting at six o’clock, about the time Josh was probably picking up Mandy. I imagined they were sitting down at a nice restaurant when Twin #1 had a diaper blow-out and the six year-old began dropping from the second-floor landing onto the sofa 15 feet below.
The twins were watching Snow White– and I was trying not to envision Mandy and Josh sharing dessert– when Cali (the six year-old) tried sticking her leg through the railings.
Of course, it got stuck.
I once heard that peanut butter gets crayon off the wall, so I figured it might work for stuck legs, too. The Farleys buy chunky, though, and it was too thick and sticky to make things slippery.
At this point, Cali was screaming bloody murder and Mandy and Josh were probably arriving at the dance. That’s when Rob, the oldest Farley and a freshman at my school, came home. He was on break from bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly. He’s kind of cute, but a major nerd. He tried pulling the rails apart while I yanked on Cali’s leg, but the girl’s got big knees.
Between Cali’s screams, Rob mentioned he was in my AP Spanish class. I knew that, but he thought maybe I didn’t because I’m always staring at the back of Josh’s head. He asked if I’m looking at the birthmark on Josh’s neck, because it’s shaped like a lima bean. I had always thought it looked more like a heart.
Rob thought Vaseline might work. As he greased up Cali’s leg, he asked if I was going to try out for the basketball team. Just because I’m tall, I told him, doesn’t mean I have to play basketball. He told me not to get all defensive and that Julia Roberts is 5 foot 11. That made me smile. It’s a big fat lie, which Rob must know, because he’s got pictures of Julia all over his Spanish binder. Just to be nice, I told him I’d think about trying out. When Cali’s leg was greased, Rob pulled on the railings again, and she got free.
Mandy came over then, all upset because Josh had picked her up an hour late and didn’t even dance with her. As she whined about her evening, I realized Rob had left without saying goodbye. I’ll have to thank him on Monday for getting out Cali’s leg. Maybe I’ll sit by him. That way I won’t have to look at Josh’s lima bean birthmark all through Spanish class.
JFilip4675 says
Dear Chase,
By the time you read this it'll be over. I'm sorry I didn't tell you this earlier or talk to you about this but I knew you'd say no. You want this baby so much an, God I hate myself, I don't.
I'm not ready to be a mom. I don't want to be a mom. I don't even have my license yet! We have our whole lives ahead of us.
Please don't hate me but I…I can't face you right now. I think it may be best if we take a break. At least for a while. I don't blame you if you hate me. I hate myself.
Please forgive me.
I love you
-Angie-
Laura Pauling says
Dear Diary,
I don't have much time. He's coming for me. After me. Oh my God.
I can't write the words down. No one can know. No one can read this. I'll whisper the words to you but I can't write them down. Sorry.
Today. This is my last day. There is so much I care about. I didn't know until this moment. My mom. Mom, if you ever read this. I forgive you. Sorry for being such a brat. And Corey, sorry for flushing your goldfish down the toilet.
In the past four days I feel like I've gone from 17 to 40. God that's ancient.
Wait. I hear something.
Oh crap.
Kelly Bryson says
Dear Diary, January 6, 2010
I swam 2400 yards this morning, or close enough. I lost track of laps during the long set and I turned to ask Greg if that was 500 yards, or just 450, and he wasn’t there. And I wanted to cry and not care who heard me, but Bill was lifeguarding- saving for his own mission, I guess. I didn’t want it get back to my parents that I was losing it in the YMCA. But it was almost a relief to have a real reason to miss Greg. To know one certain thing that my brother is missed for. Nobody at school has asked about him in three days. I don’t have anything to say- he hasn’t emailed except the man who sat next to him on the plane accepted a Book of Mormon. But that was a few days ago and he won’t email again until his next ‘preparation’ day. It’s like he never existed.
Janie avoided me at church yesterday and I’m glad. It’s too much to see her without seeing Greg in the hall behind her running to catch up and ask her what movie she wants to go see. Her eyes were puffy, though. Next Sunday will be easier because she’s back at BYU, but I bet for her the whole campus is how the pool is for me. Like you’re always surprised that he’s gone. I don’t mean to sound like he’s dead. It’s just two years and it’s the right thing to do and I’m proud of him. But I wonder if he misses swimming. Is he so caught up meeting the other missionaries and learning Tagalog that he doesn’t even have time to think of us?
Mom’s yelling up the stairs that it’s family night. Yippee. I can’t wait to play scripture chase. Maybe they’ll agree to Mario Cart instead. Nah. The spirit of prophecy has revealed to me that we’ll be writing to missionaries. Every week for the next two years.
-Lucy
Resmiranda says
Ghost hunting journal, November 2nd, final entry:
All results have proven inconclusive at best, boring at worst. I have tried everything I can think of, but nothing works. The piano he used to play has no strange vibrations around it, his favorite books show no signs of being read, and I almost broke the telescope he used for stargazing. There were no temperature fluctuations in the spot where he died, and even the one time I thought I heard him get up and go 'on patrol' was just mom going into the kitchen to get something to put her to sleep. (I even tested their bed for electromagnetic fluctuations, but mom hardly ever leaves the house so the experiment was aborted prematurely.)
Two nights ago was the final experiment. I took the gun he used, snuck out of the house, and went to his grave at midnight. The books all say that's when the veil between the worlds is thinnest.
Nothing. Just a stupid grave, and stupid me. I'm lucky I got the gun back in his drawer without waking mom up.
I'm an idiot. Ghosts are supposed to be spirits with regrets and things left undone, and I thought maybe there was something he might want to tell me before he passed on for good. Like maybe some advice or apologizing for not being able to give me away when I get married, but maybe if he had anything to say he would have written a note.
I guess he left for a reason.
joannehuspek says
12-16-09
If there were ever a case to be made for the invention of wizards, for magic to be made a college course, for a sure sign of the paranormal, now would be time for revelation.
HELP! HELP ME, PLEASE!
A crazy woman is kidnapping me!
Just my luck, Harry Potter doesn’t sweep down from the heavens, Edward Cullen neglects to freeze time and Buffy’s not around to save the day.
Are they blind to the insane woman dragging me up the aisle against my will? I slipped a note scribbled on a McDonald’s paper napkin to the gate agent. "My name is Amberly Cooper and I’m being held hostage. Call 911." She unfolded it, took one look and tossed it into the trash under her desk. What a total waste of ink.
Telepathy doesn’t work. I might as well be invisible I’m that powerless. I turn on my sad eyes for the businessmen in First Class, the smelly hippie in Row 16, a flight attendant caked with way too much make up and a grandmother in the seat in front of us. I will force them to look at me by the sheer will of my superior mind. HELP ME! Damn it. They ignore me, all of them, which is a major bummer. My sad eyes always worked on Dad. It was my guaranteed sure ploy when whining and reason failed to get the job done. One look and voila! I get everything I want.
Tonight I get nothing. I want to scream and cry out loud but if I couldn’t convince Summer’s mom why would a plane full strangers believe me?
It’s hot, it’s late, my backpack is heavy, I have a headache and I want to go home.
HOME.
PV. Palos Verdes, that’s my home. But she says we can’t live there anymore.
While she crams her Prada bag into the overhead bin, I steal the window seat. She hates being in the middle almost as much as flying commercial, but I don’t care. Why should I do anything nice for her? I try not to cry as I power up my iPod but then I see a familiar bag on the asphalt below me. It has to be mine – it’s one of a kind. No one else has a humongous hot pink suitcase. I channel my exceptional mind toward the baggage handlers. If my bag were invisible they would forget it. I could rush to the front of the plane and fling myself out the door to rescue it. Hopefully before they pull the walkway back because it looks like one hell of a step down. I’ll roll it back to the house myself, even if I have to crawl on my hands and knees over broken glass and scorpions and dodge careening traffic on the I-10. Even if it takes days.
Damn it. No such luck. I watch them grab my bag. They throw my entire life into the black hole right beneath my seat.
Scott says
Life sucks . . . BIG TIME! I’m so tired of dealing with it! Why couldn’t I have been born normal? Why did it have to be me? Why couldn’t “it” have happened to someone else?
“It” didn’t happen to someone else. “It” happened to me.
“It” sucks. I mean, Mom’s gonna like totally freak out if she ever finds out. I’ll destroy her perfect life and have to listen to ‘what will everyone think’ over and over and over again. Then, she’ll make me go talk to a priest, and probably a shrink as well.
She’ll think there’s a cure!
I wish there was a cure.
I wish I could change how I feel, what I feel. I can’t.
I’m so tired of people thinking they know me, and making their snarky comments.
They don’t know me. They don’t have a clue what I’m going through.
Nobody does. I can’t tell anybody.
I wonder what normal feels like?
Violet Ingram says
Dear Diary,
Today sucked. If I hadn’t been so distracted I’d have avoided the door and not broken my arm. An idiot lawyer, just like that ass Rosenthal, stormed out of Books N Things. The door smacked into me and I fell onto to the concrete. David was there and took me to the hospital. The same damn hospital where mom died. I’ve avoided the place for almost four years.
On the front page of the local news was a picture of Peter Rosenthal. The city is giving him a Good Samaritan Award. I guess they’ve chosen to forget how he got behind the wheel of his Jaguar drunk and killed my mother. Un-freaking believable.
The only good thing is its summer break. I don’t have to worry about dealing with running the store, taking care of my sisters, and my senior year of college all with a broken arm. Well, I still have to deal with the first two. Olivia insists that she’s in love with Richard and that as soon as she graduates in two years they’re getting married. I don’t trust him.
Of course, Miranda is a handful. She thinks since she just graduated from high school that she shouldn’t have to answer to me anymore. I’m worried about her. All she wants to do is party.
Maybe I would too if I hadn’t had to grow up overnight.
I’m tired. I’m going to go take a pain pill and call it a day.
Cassandra Holston
Jennifer Towery says
Dear Stranger,
I wanted to say Dear Friend but my dad would never tolerate a fact error in the first sentence.
He’s asked me to write you every year for three years and I never have. You haven’t exactly been unthanked. Dad never let me see his letters to you, but I bet they were perfect. Hey, maybe someday you can show them to me? Assuming we ever meet, of course, which I shouldn’t assume but Dad said one day we might. Meet, I mean. Not assume. I’ll tell you now, in case he didn’t mention it, that my inability to speak and write as precisely as him was a Great Disappointment in his life. Mom said hers was my unwillingness to try on clothes before I bought them. I say they should have had more kids. One of them could have gotten the word gene and the make-Mom-happy gene.
Here’s a word to make Dad happy: Macabre. That’s what the annual thank you letter is. I could write it in three words. “What he said.” I saw how long his letters were. He found hundreds of words to say thanks, each one perfect. I can’t compete. “BTW, thanks! :-)” Dad said that’s how he knew journalism was dying – he kept having to edit emoticons out of interns’ stories. I think he was kidding.
He told you about his job, I bet. It was his life, and since he owed you his life, really he owed you for his job. God, I hope you’re not one of those it’s all the media’s fault types, because if you are then you feel really cheated right now. Join the club, I say.
Daddy told me how old his donor was when he died. He was too young. Did you say goodbye? Did you give us his lungs to keep him here? Are you sorry? I said goodbye to my dad, but instead of him dying, someone else died and Dad got his lungs. Not very fair, I know. Life’s not fair, my dad said, right up to the day he died.
I hope that wasn’t news to you, that he’s gone. That’s why I’m writing, for me and Mom, so you don’t think we quit caring. We didn’t get to say goodbye this time, and she can’t deal. He fell asleep and never woke up. It’s ironic that he about suffocated before he got new lungs, then his heart just quit. One heart attack, three broken hearts. Dad would be so proud I used the word “ironic” correctly.
I still haven’t thanked you. I don’t have the words. You saved him, and he died anyway. You gave us time, but not enough. I’m too young. But I want you to know I get the sacrifice you made. I can’t compete.
Dad was a fan of the six-word novel. Maybe six can be enough, at least until I’m old enough to get the words right.
Thanks for lungs. Please send heart.
Maddy