I Want To FlyI want to dance.Oh, don't I sound petulant with my legs dangling off the couch, toes to the floor. Pouting behind my hair, hands on my lap. I watch other couples swirl and twist and jitter to music, sometimes music only they can hear, and I wilt as if I have been sitting in the sun far too long. Going about daily routines like shopping, to me, looks like a waltz. Metered and perfect. Taking the dog for a walk is like a tango; luscious and daring. Dropping the children off at school is like ballet, yards of tulle tutu's and beautifully dimmed lighting, rose colored glasses. I sigh.I want to talk.I don't want to talk about it,
You're Daydreaming, Tooi.The end of your driveway is home to a lady made of twigs. She comes out at midnight and sits, stagnant, peering through her branches at your bedroom window. In August she is made of bones.ii.Your mother had a stillborn, boy, blue as the sky. She named him 'William' and buried him in the garden. The ceremony was legitimate, but you still hear him cry at night. So does your mother. After she carried him for nine grueling months just to have him die, she decided there would be no more ice cream in the house. If she was suffering, nobody was exempt. Still, you steal it from the basement, where your father keeps it in the ice box, and you
PuckMy name is James McCarthy. I have an IQ (or so they say) of 168. I talked to my doctor about this inflated number, to which he coughed and said that I was lucky enough to think for myself in this kind of world. Even with my so called 'smarts', I didn't really understand what he was insinuating. High IQ or not, I suppose I'm just too young to grasp adult insinuations. I guess my age has a factor in everything I do, anyway.I attend Grade 9 at Rosalie Parks Elementary and Junior High School, refusing to be projected rapidly through my classes and in to high school prematurely. I wanted to keep the friendships I had managed to create, and I fel