A picnick in the park

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Start off with autocorrect

Everything brightens, looks a bit more defined.

Next step, messing around with color, saturation, contrast.

Perfect.

Next to blemish control, blotting out little bumps and bruises.

Now to the fun part.

Adding different colors, vignettes, cutsie stamps of flowers and smiley faces.

Some words for effect.

Brighten these colors, make this black and white.

Beautiful.

Make eyes different color,

A fake spray on tan,

Insert in rosy cheeks.

Wow.

In front of the computer screen,

I look at a beautiful version of myself,

Green eyes, tan skin, no imperfections.

Save as "Imma real brazilian".

Bring up picture on desktop.

What did the original look like?

Bring up original.

Ew....

Brown eyes, scarred face, pale, pale skin staring back at me.

This is what you are.

Look back on the photoedited picture, in all it's glory.

Fake green eyes staring absently,

Plastic skin glowing falsely, 

I guess you're not so pretty after all.

Delete.

Back to the original,

Back to imperfection,

Back to what I've learned to love.

There's feeling in her eyes,

Empathetic smile on her lips,

You're gorgeous.

Save as "Imma real me."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

No.

You aren't pretty.

Yes.

Your hips are a bit too wide,

Your belly bulges too far past your jeans,

You've got thunder thighs,

Your face is oily and gross,

Your hair could use some work,

Your smile is a crooked mess.

No.

You aren't pretty.

You're beautiful.

Yes.

Your hips make you look like a woman,

Your muffin top is a result of actually eating food,

Your thighs are proportionate,

Your face emits a healthy glow,

Your hair is original,

And your smile

Your smile

Your careless, youthful, happy smile

Is the most beautiful of it all.

--Julie

Toil

he sat on the ground.

his back against the tiled wall.

staring.

staring transfixed at the bottle.

the transparent orange tube of pills.

the snails track of former tears covered his face.

his hands were shaking.

his eyes were bloodshot.

he wrapped his arms around his legs and tried,

tried, to calm himself.

he tried to turn away.

but he couldn't.

he knew he would eventually cave in.

so what better time than now.

his breathing rate was increasing at an inhuman pace.

he raised his hands and grabbed at his hair.

he pulled his head into his knees and let out a fresh waterfall of tears.

it was so hard.

to resist the temptation.

to give up.

he screamed. and screamed.

and screamed.

he banged his head against the wall.

perhaps the pain could distract him.

but the thought was still there. the lust was still there.

-----

the longing was still there.

and he couldn't take it.

one pill.

could end his suffering.

his pain.

his heartbreak.

one dramatic twist.

to end it all.

and begin it all again.

the painful paradox.

he couldn't give it up.

but he couldn't keep it forever.

it would have to end.

but for now,

let the addiction rule.

--mark

cassandra

she is called cassandra. not sandra, not cassie, but cassandra. somehow, nicknames for her don't ring quite right. the only reason why i've never yanked her by the hair and flung her out of my life is that she never meant harm. that, and the fact that i have to see her face every day because of the three class periods we share.

~*~

cassandra worries about homework and tests and auditions and her parents being unhappy with her grades. she says that when she comes home with a c on the chemistry lab report, her parents get angry and might hit her, but that doesn't happen most of the time. she comes to school the next day with unbruised skin and insecurities about the next history test. 

i will never understand why she is so stressed out about academics in every waking moment. achievement comes from passion, hard work, and a reliable head. it isn't born out of being a worrywart. besides, who wants to be perpetually thinking about grades and consequences?

~*~

she thinks that i am her friend and asks me when the next math quiz is, which is aggravating because i happen to not give a damn about test dates. friends don't come to each other just to glean extra information about those kinds of senseless logistics; that's what classmates do. friends find somewhere quiet to eat brown-bag lunches, talk about life, and make tasteless viola jokes. they take the train downtown together to take in riccardo muti and the city lights.

maybe one day she'll gather her scattered brains and learn to work hard, play hard, live hard. or maybe her day-to-day concerns about schoolwork will directly translate into a week-to-week hassle about what sales and promotions are going on in which grocery stores.

[rule number six: stop taking yourself so goddamn seriously :D]

--christie

smile

honestly, love, i think you need to smile more.

you do not know who you are. but i do. and i think you need to smile. like, a lot more.

so, chin up, mister. smile more.

pull up your pants, get a normal shirt, straighten your hair, and tie your shoe laces.

because, honestly, do you know who we are?

we are sophmores in high school, in suburban chicago, illinois, in the united states of america.

i think we deserve a few simple things, par from the high-and-excitement of high school.

so, stop being so silly, so conceited, so sad.

and love, smile. just a teeny tiny one. just a super teeny tiny upturn of the lips in the direction of the sun.

turn your lips so they're facing the blue yonder above us.

stop being such a debbie downer. you are not debbie. or a downer.

so smile, before someone else starts to frown as well.

that someone just might be me

and it has already started.

--lynn

The Silent Majority

We're everywhere, you know. 

The silent majority. 

In a world that's seemingly full of extremists and radicals and wackos and nutjobs, holding big signs about killing the gays or burning the banks or saving our children from the disgusting, violent Islamic agenda of our president who is neither violent nor Muslim in the least, we get lost. The news loves the exception. In a crowd full of angry chanting, we're the guy holding the sign that says "LIFE IS PRETTY OKAY". Less symbolically and more realistically, we're the people who look at the rally on the street and shake their heads and keep driving, keep walking, keep living. Because maybe we're happy and maybe we're unhappy, but until things get unbearable we'll keep the illusion that life is, in fact, pretty okay. 

We support our troops, but not so much the wars they're in. We're religious, although we don't know much about it. Mostly we just believe that you'll still get into heaven if you're one of the good guys, even if you don't believe in the exact same God as us. For the most part, we're alright with you doing that thing that you want to do,whatever it is you want to do, as long as it's legal and reasonable and doesn't bother us. We'll live our lives, and you'll live yours, and it'll all be pretty okay. 

Except when it's not.

Because sometimes, the crazy, radical minority isn't harmless anymore. They go from being the class clown to the class bully. And just like with bullies, there's always a victim-- often a helpless one. And just like with bullies, the consequences may end up so much bigger than they seem. And just like with bullies, the ones who stay silent are just as much at fault. 

Once upon a time not too long ago, there was a boy. One day, that boy was going to college, playing the viola, sharing a private moment with his boyfriend. The next day, that moment was put up on the Internet by his roommate who had taped it; the day after that, that boy jumped off a bridge. One bully-- that's all it took to push him off the edge. And one person who'd chosen to speak up rather than stay silent-- that's all it might have taken to keep him alive. And yet, we're still silent. What's so important about keeping mum that keeps us from standing up for what's right? Why would we keep our mouths closed and watch people get hurt when we can do so much, and save so much, just by saying "No, this isn't right"? Maybe you don't think your voice is enough to change the world, but your voice could be the first-- there are others just as afraid to speak up as you. If one raindrop falls from the sky, it's brushed off. But soon there's a second, and a third, and a tenth, and then hundreds of them. Filling the dry streams, watering the thirsty plants, cleaning out the air, and making everybody else take cover and take notice. 

I don't know about you, but I can't stand to be silent any longer. 

--Patti

Invasion

I sit in my little white world.

with big white walls and small white people.

everything identical.

everything monotone.

everything functions normally.

we sit at our little white computers and type out codes.

commands. instructions. orders.

until the moment when it all stopped.

a knife pierced the perfect white walls.

the white plastered brick slowly reduced to silk by the knife.

as it cut through the perfect little world.

and we panicked.

human resources recieved tons of complaints.

public relations totally shut down.

all of the good public speakers ran out screaming.

everyone lost their cool calm and collected state and let their emotions rule.

the knife appeared to be carving a rectangle.

me and my co-workers were losing it.

I didn't know what was going on.

I wasn't in control.

the knife was halfway through the 3rd side of the rectangle.

I hid in a corner.

I didn't want to watch it.

but I couldn't help myself.

the 3rd wall was done.

the knife retreats.

but we know we're not safe.

it'll be back.

suddenly, a force pushes the rectangle.

it was a door.

and there you stand.

and I smile.

I push a button.

my co-workers return to their desks, still brimming with excitement.

papers litter the floor, and a calm facade has appeared.

I invite you in.

--Mark

disapproval.

i was always afraid of disapproval. i suppose i still am, in many aspects. one of the main reasons why i have straight-A's is because i've maintained them since the third grade and i can't imagine what my parents would do if i gave them anything less. people walked all over me in elementary school because i was afraid of saying something out of line. it continued a little bit in middle school, but it happened less because by then, everyone was forging identities and reputations and individual personalities that marked a person's place among the students, and i was finding mine too, asserting myself.

one might argue that all my efforts to create a new identity born from tat timid wallflower were driven by my pathetically overpowering need to be accepted. i learned, as all young people do. i learned how to sing and play the violin. i learned what i needed to know on the tests. i learned who the cool kids were, the ones worth my respect and time. i learned how to use empty flattery and how to make small talk. i learned how to use sarcasm. i learned how to act immature. i learned hypocrisy.

after three years of learning, i was the person you met at the beginning of the 2009-2010 school year. i suppose i've changed even more since then, but the point is not how much i've changed; it's how i've changed. recently, i had a conversation with someone who was talking about how a person is shaped by one's experiences and the people surrounding one's life. this kid said that most individuals don't fully realize the impact they can have on a person. of course, it made me think about what i've done this year and how i've impacted the people around me. i've done some things i never realized i was capable of, both good and bad. who could have guessed i'd be rolling around the forum room stage in an intense mock fight with danaya in the name of one-acts? or that i'd be the one making MLIA-worthy lady gaga jokes during advisory? or that i'd be writing these rants on a semi-regular basis? or that i'd find it im myself to deliberately hurt someone?

i wish i hadn't done the last one, but at the time, i couldn't see any other way to proceed. as much as i'm human and the many things i have a capacity for includes doing wrong, is this how it was supposed to go? was my desire to belong ultimately meant to turn me into the kind of person who did things knowing those actions would hurt others? you'd think i'd apologize, but i haven't yet figured out how to do that. i will never be able to make full amends--one cannot undo the experiences one has created in another's life. and i guess the way my conscience won't abide with that is the worst kind of disapproval in the end.

i'm still a selfish teenager.
i may be short, but as a person, i'm still growing, still learning.
one day, i hope to be good again.
one day, i hope i shall learn to be better than the person i've learned to be.


--christie

Salvation cannot be sent, as it exceeds 160 characters in length.

An ash cloud descends upon the world, blacking out the sun.
Within a day, it has over a million fans on Facebook.

The dead rise from their graves, seeking vengeance on those still alive.
Within an hour, they all have Twitter accounts.

Aliens destroy New York City with weapons science didn't even think possible.
Within five minutes, there are 300,000 hits on YouTube.

People of Earth will proclaim that the end is near.
and not a word will b capitalized

God comes again to judge the living and the dead
but turns around and heads home,
seeing as we're all viewing it secondhand from our computer screens instead of firsthand, with our eyes.


--Patti

Apples to Apples

She stood up nervously, aware of this cult's fake, glossy exterior.

A hundred eyes staring, staring.

A hundred twinkling, supposedly supportive, supposedly happy, supposedly Christian eyes.

I wish I knew what they were thinking. Probably closer to hell than heaven.

The question was simple.

Every member of the congregation was suppose to answer honestly.

Why are you a Christian?

So maybe it wasn't so simple.

At least, not if everyone was to answer honestly.

Deep breath, clenched fists and eyes cast downward she took a stab at the answer.

"I'm not a Christian," 

A hundred happy little masks fell off, the staring became glaring.

She looked up, quickly glancing at everyone's real faces.

"God's gonna set you uh'fire, youngin'" Screeched a particularly soulful old woman.

God, I hate the south.

 "He's not gonna set me afire, Ms. Chokeberry." Polite enough.

"Do you doubt the power of God?"

"Let the child speak, ma'am. I want to hear this." The preacher interrupted firmly, gently giving her the  verbal nudge to carry on.

"I'm not a Christian. Because there's just one aspect of the Bible I cannot even begin to comprehend, much less believe."

"Blasphemy." Ms.Chokeberry breathed.

She shrugged it off, agitated and inspired.

"And, well, frankly, it's not the miracles or the unconditional love; the omnipresence or the abundance of power..."

Her shoulders released all tension as her mind released all filters.

"I mean, I don't really care if God can create a stone heavy enough that he couldn't even lift it. Or how He himself was created..."

Filters were alerted by the next absurdity she was about to vocalize.

"What really bothers me,"

Sweat triggered.

"W-w-what...really...bothers me"

Glaring eyes were becoming impatient.

"What really bothers me is Genesis....The beginning....the genesis of sin."

Moments of silence.

"What bothers you about it?"

She was hoping that question wouldn't come up.

"Uhm...well...you see"

Complete honesty.

"I just...could never wrap my mind around the fact that God didn't want Eve to eat an apple. Out of all things- an apple to represent sin?"

The awkward silence of whether to voice laughter or disbelief.

She continued, "What kind of parent wouldn't be happy, proud to have their kids eat fruit? Especially one that made them smarter, more aware, more mature! It just...it just never made sense. It should have been a Twinkie tree or something. something sweet and fattening and wrong. Not....not an apple!"

No one said a thing.

"Well, child," the old woman broke the silence with her sharp voice, "Twinkie's simply do not grow on trees."

"God could've done it."

"Oh please!"

She smirked right along with her.

"Well, ma'am. Who's doubting the power of God now?"

--Julie

Breathe

and there you are.

on my doorstep.

I can see your face peek through the window.

look around in confusion, as if expecting me.

I stand up and walk towards the door.

you see me now. 

you smile warmly.

my hand almost touches the handle.

but I pull back in fright, as if the handle were conducting electricity.

you're confused. so am I.

you raise your eyebrows.

you mouth the same words over and over.

let me in.

and each time my hand goes near,

I remember.

I remember why I can't turn the handle.

a tear rolls down my cheek.

you just look at me in confusion.

in sympathy.

I turn around.

I walk away.

I look at the kitchen utensils.

at the knives.

then I look at you,

and remember why.

why I can't pull a knife down.

why I can't put an end to this torture.

I sit and sob.

I can't look you in the eye anymore.

I can't breathe anymore.

--mark

The Little Prince

I'm scared.

That we'll grow up

And leave all our childhood ambitions behind.

That we'll look back on what we wrote as children when we're adults and laugh

And label everything as "cute" or "stupid" or "pathetic"

Or some other word for 'unimportant' as we move on to matters of consequence.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

I forget where I heard the phrase

Every young generation wants to change the world.

And it's true, it's true.

Every generation has that little rebel stage where we want to create our identity as a seperate, new era; completely seperated from the parent.

But not enough generations have really gathered enough force to collectively evoke change.

There haven't been many revolts.

Or rather

Revolutions.

The sixties was the time when hippies were big, and liberal flower children handed peace and love to police officers beating protestors on the street.

That I think is the closest youthful human kind has come to liberating itself from the repetitive, war-filled history of our ancestors.

But.

(And here in lies the problem)

Some of us are children to those used-to-be chain-smoking, trippy acid kids.

And some of our parents are police officers.

Even the hippies grew up.

~*~*~*~*~

We can't stop from growing up.

That's human.

But since when did growing up signify that we have to stop being children?

Stop listening to children?

Stop believing that the world could actually be a better place?

~*~*~*~*~*~

And of course there's that whole idea that by fitting into society and slowly doing your part in the small things the world will eventually become a better place.

Wake up.

The world doesn't have as much time as we think it does.

There are thousands of potential diseases, meteors, climate changes and more

That could obliterate the earth.

Or, more likely, life on earth.

More specifically, human life on earth.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

So slow and simple has worked for a while, but time is kinda getting short.

If not us, then who?

Which generation will bring about love, acceptence, joy in the world in an equal, justified manner?

Who will feed the hungry?

Who will cure the diseases?

If not us.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

If the world is gonna be destroyed anyways, it doesn't really matter if measly, little human kind dies in peace or in war.

But. I think it's sad.

Horrible.

That in the entire known history of the earth there hasn't been one

moment

of recorded perfection.

One decade, or year, or day, or even an hour where the entire earth was actually at peace.

~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~

It's too ambitious, I know.

"World peace" what does that even mean?

Maybe world peace is actually the destruction of the earth

When humans cease to exist

And everything can be left alone.

--Julie