Call my Cellphone. March 9, 2007
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(THIS IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION BY WRITER….)
she calls him, and
calls him. It doesn’t
do any good.
he lets it ring and
hears the answering
machine click on. “Hey
this is Greg, leave me a
message. I’ll talk to ya
later.” He hears her
voice. “Greg. I know
you’re there. Please
call me on my cell. I
love you, Sweety. Bye!”
He listens to the message
his fiance just recorded.
The phone rings again.
Not recognizing the
number, he answers,
” ‘Lo?”.
“Hi, ” says a silky voice
on the other end.
“excuse me, but who
is this?, ” says Greg.
” I ,” says the voice,
“am Michelle. We met
at the business convention
today. i like you. ALOT. So
do you wanna get together
for dinner?,”. Greg smiles,
“Are you implying that we
should sleep together?,”.
There’s a soft laugh from the
other end of the phone. “Well,
I was hopin…..,”. Greg smiled.
He paused for a moment watching
the “recieved message” button
on his phone flash, reminding
him of the message Amy had
sent him.
He grins and says to the voice,
“I”ll be right there…,”
He had a good time that night.
He went home the next day, home
to his family, and to his Amy.
Three months later Greg and Amy
were married. They were happy.
Six months after that he died
because AIDS had ravaged
his body.
Because he threw it all away…
all for one night.
Gone. March 8, 2007
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She picks the baby up out of her crib. The baby gazes at her mother’s face. A face of calm reassurance. She smiles as the baby, dressing her in one of of her play outfits. The mother plaecs the baby on her hip and walks into the the kitchen. She pulls out the baby’s high-chair. Sitting the baby in the chair, she snaps the plastic holder into place. The baby watches all of this, cooing and happy. The mother turns and burrows through the cabinet for a jar of baby-food. Popping open the jar, she reaches for a plastic spoon out of the silverware drawer. The baby is tracing the patterns on her high-chair with one small pink finger. This is the picture of perfection.
The doorbell rings, and the mother sets the baby-food down on the counter. She walks into the next room to answer the door. The baby hears the lock on the door rattle, signifying the opening of the door. She sees her mother open the door. There’s a loud BANG! that the baby doesn’t understand. Mommy’s on the floor; not moving, not smiling. There’s a pool of red, sticky stuff around Mommy’s head that’s begun to stain the carpet. The baby wishes Mommy would get up. When she doesn’t the baby cries, and cries, and cries. But no one ever comes for her…
Speechless March 7, 2007
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You had him so far
up on Cloud Nine that
he couldn’t even talk.
Gave that boy a bad
case of warm fuzzies,
you did.
He had a warm, happy glow
that wasn’t put there by
nobody-else, babycakes.
I’m jealous I tell you.
He was so happy he
couldn’t talk at all, and he
hummed, just a little,
cause the joy in his heart
was spillin’ out, and
it decided to present itself to
the world as…
music.
New Kid on the Block March 7, 2007
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Here they stand. Another
bunch of kids on the block.
Young, smart, talented,
These are the kids that are
up for sale.
As they stand here on the
auction block, the buyers
speculate.
The buyers? Fame, Wealth,
Prosperity, Insanity, Drugs,
Lust, Death,and Hate.
All willing to buy these young
souls, each only having enough
pursemoney to buy one.
The kids go on, never knowing
they’re on auction. Never knowing
they’re being speculated over.
Death steps up and makes his bid. “I
want that one,” he calls, pointing to the
pretty brunette. She writes her
stories and plays her music, oblivious
of it all. Prosperity steps up next to
Death and shouts, “ No, I want her.”
The Auctioneer smiles, a wicked
smile, and says, “She goes to the
highest Buyer.” Being as the
buyers had the same purse
amount, the auctioneer decided to
have some fun. He says,
“Throw her some tests. Whichever
She does best with she’ll go to the
prospective buyer.”
Prosperity steps up, “ok.”. He
increases her talents, helping
her rehearse and write. He
sends a boy.
She uses these gifts and accepts
the boy with open arms, and
all the love in her heart.
Death steps up for his turn. He
takes away her words and
her musicality. He steals her
boy. And breaks her heart.
Now the cutting moment
Of this test has come, that
decides which way she’ll
go.
Can she raise herself up
Out of her pain? or will she
wallow in this hurt, this pain,
this private Hell?
Everyone holds their
breath as she (for it can be
only she)
decides her fate…
Are we really making a difference? March 6, 2007
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Pushin the envelope
tryin to make a difference
gotta hope that, in the
end, it’ll all make
sense.
we need a Savior to
save us. No to mention….
The Skeletons. We’ve got
so many we can’t fit ’em in
the closet. They’re in the
closet, the drawers, under the
bed, around the corner, and
ALWAYS on our minds.
You talk about changing the
world; makin it a better
place for the future. FYI, we
ain’t gonna get anything done
’til we confront the Skeletons
that are all around us.
You know you’re living in America when… March 6, 2007
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Always pushing to be better,
never stopping to realize
or ask ; why am I doing
this?
Who decides who the best
is? Who decides which good
isn’t good enough? Who’s call
is it to say that all your work
just doesn’t cut it?
We’re broken and molded by
what we see and by what
“they” say. We couldn’t do
that because it wouldn’t
please “them”.
Who is “them”? Who are
“they”? Who are we? Who
am I? Who are you?
We base our lives on other
peoples’ definition of right
and wrong,
never wondering; who are
they and what do they
matter?
Why can’t we let go, set our
own codes? Have our own
ideas, fashions, foods, and
THOUGHTS?
The reason why, I tell you,
is because letting go, striking
out, and making a difference
means we’ll be different. We
might be alone, and we couldn’t
handle it…
DFA Writes 