Lacey
12-14-2009, 01:49 AM
(So, I wrote this late at night when I heard a song. I'm writing a collection of short story that's going to be called 'It Started With a Song'. It's a bunch of short stories I've written based on songs.)
Song to listen to while reading: Dear Mr. President ~ Pink
__________________________
Her lip trembled. The only light was that of the sickly desk lamp. A blank ledger pad was in front of her and a pencil between her pointer and middle fingers. She was young; just beginning middle school, yet lines of age that were etched into her concentrating face made her seem years older. In her mind was a hurricane of thought that should never enter a thirteen-year-old’s mind.
The tip of her pencil touched the page as if genius was going to spew from her slightly shaking hand. She scribbled down some words and squinted, lifting the writing utensil for a moment.
Dear Mr. President,
Taking a breath and chewing restlessly on the end of her eraser, collecting her thoughts. Swallowing her tight nerves, she continued.
Tell me why.
My sister came home today and seemed different than herself; almost angry but not quite. She’s taking government at her high school and learned that one of your jobs is chief citizen.
You’re one of us, she said.
I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but I can’t believe that.
You talk about things on the TV. About how you’re sorry people are dying. That you’re sorry I can’t sleep in my old room at my old house because it isn’t ours anymore.
I can’t believe that.
Tell me why.
My sister says we didn’t even vote for you.
The ‘electoral collage’ did. How is that fair? I don’t know them and they don’t know my daddy, who voted. How are they better than me? How are you?
Tell me why.
I’m only 13 and I can see that, no matter what the news lady says, for most of us nothing is getting better. Mommy still cried herself to sleep most nights and Daddy can’t find a job even though he graduated from collage. The box-man still only has his box and the nickels and dimes I give him.
Tell me why.
Everyday, I hear more about another boy who’s gotten blowed up or shot. That we’re not winning.
Isn’t that what happened in Vietnam?
We couldn’t win but we still fought. Still had the sons of helpless mothers die.
I think everyone deserves freedom but my big sister is joining the Army and I don’t want her to die. I love her a whole lot.
Tell me why.
We kids aren’t listened to.
We’re not stupid.
We know what it feels like to lose something.
To be poor.
To watch lives fall apart.
Tell me why.
You’re supposed to be one of us.
You don’t know.
But I do.
Tell me why that is…
Signed,
A concerned teenage girl.
A grim smile set itself on her face and she wiped a stubborn from her eye. Tapping her pencil on the desk, one other thought popped into her head.
P.S. If you’ve actually read this, we might have some hope.
She clicked the light off.
__________________________
Please tear it apart.
Song to listen to while reading: Dear Mr. President ~ Pink
__________________________
Her lip trembled. The only light was that of the sickly desk lamp. A blank ledger pad was in front of her and a pencil between her pointer and middle fingers. She was young; just beginning middle school, yet lines of age that were etched into her concentrating face made her seem years older. In her mind was a hurricane of thought that should never enter a thirteen-year-old’s mind.
The tip of her pencil touched the page as if genius was going to spew from her slightly shaking hand. She scribbled down some words and squinted, lifting the writing utensil for a moment.
Dear Mr. President,
Taking a breath and chewing restlessly on the end of her eraser, collecting her thoughts. Swallowing her tight nerves, she continued.
Tell me why.
My sister came home today and seemed different than herself; almost angry but not quite. She’s taking government at her high school and learned that one of your jobs is chief citizen.
You’re one of us, she said.
I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but I can’t believe that.
You talk about things on the TV. About how you’re sorry people are dying. That you’re sorry I can’t sleep in my old room at my old house because it isn’t ours anymore.
I can’t believe that.
Tell me why.
My sister says we didn’t even vote for you.
The ‘electoral collage’ did. How is that fair? I don’t know them and they don’t know my daddy, who voted. How are they better than me? How are you?
Tell me why.
I’m only 13 and I can see that, no matter what the news lady says, for most of us nothing is getting better. Mommy still cried herself to sleep most nights and Daddy can’t find a job even though he graduated from collage. The box-man still only has his box and the nickels and dimes I give him.
Tell me why.
Everyday, I hear more about another boy who’s gotten blowed up or shot. That we’re not winning.
Isn’t that what happened in Vietnam?
We couldn’t win but we still fought. Still had the sons of helpless mothers die.
I think everyone deserves freedom but my big sister is joining the Army and I don’t want her to die. I love her a whole lot.
Tell me why.
We kids aren’t listened to.
We’re not stupid.
We know what it feels like to lose something.
To be poor.
To watch lives fall apart.
Tell me why.
You’re supposed to be one of us.
You don’t know.
But I do.
Tell me why that is…
Signed,
A concerned teenage girl.
A grim smile set itself on her face and she wiped a stubborn from her eye. Tapping her pencil on the desk, one other thought popped into her head.
P.S. If you’ve actually read this, we might have some hope.
She clicked the light off.
__________________________
Please tear it apart.