Bureaucratic Choices

Running across the kindergarten playground, a group of five us held hands in one giant line.  There was no purpose to the game, if you can even call it that.  No one won, and no one lost.  But at that moment we were having fun, which explained the three other times we restarted the “game.”  Each time going to the school wall, grabbing hands with the person next to you, and running.  Certainly if we ran to a place, some predetermined line, maybe it could be a race; but that was not what we were doing.  We ran until we were laughing so much that we couldn’t run any further.  And that was enough for us.

Childish?  Naive?  We were kids.  For the most part that’s all most people need to know.  We were best friends, and at that moment it explained our every move.  In truth, besides our attempt at creating a pointless new game, our little group was quite bureaucratic.  We had two elected leaders, Kevin and Hannah.  We chose them because they were the best suited for the job.  We chose them because they were the most outspoken of all of us.  We chose them because everybody liked them.  And we chose them because we figured we need one boy and one girl leading us.  It seems even in a group of five year olds, equal representation was a must.

Kevin and Hannah’s job was mediation.  It rested on their shoulders to decide which games we played during recess.  This isn’t to say our group of friends was a monarchy, we did think to limit their power.  Each day there was a new Special Person…unfortunately though we were strong with governmental policies, our creativity lacked.  The Special Person was one of the rest of us who got to pick the one game they wanted to play that day.  It was a way for the rest of us to have a voice.  Yet probably the most sophisticated aspect of our little group was my role in the hierarchy of friends.

It was my job to replace Kevin if he ever abdicated his position, or was just absent that day. There was also a girl to follow Hannah, and two more to follow behind us.  Our roles showed a foresight not normally attributed to five year olds because of the basic insight to see the imperfection of life.  We understood, without knowing why, that there might come a day when our hierarchy would falter, and we took precautions to alleviate any adversities. Our roles gave us a sense of importance, not only did we belong but we had a purpose.  When we had created the group our first act, after creating our positions, was to name the organization.  This too, like everything else, we did logically: by a vote.  We each came up with an idea, and when we were done we voted on whose was best.

The rest of the kindergarten class envied us.  Coming together as one group meant childhood power.  We were exclusive and our numbers stayed the same.  Exclusiveness was our attraction, and everyone wanted in.  Every kid in our grade knew who was in our group; we were basically five-year-old royalty.  We reveled in the attention that we got for being part of this club.  Soon Kevin and Hannah’s authority spread beyond our little group.  They became the spokespeople for our grade.  Later they would write a letter the next year to President Clinton on behalf of our entire school.  I was quickly seen as the represeentative to both, and I was their official delegate to the class.

After our bureaucracy was complete, our group legitimized, and all the positions were securely understood—we played.  That day we ran, for no reason, other then we were happy.  Other days we played tag, soccer, or just sat against the school wall laughing.  No matter what we did, our first objective as an organization was fun. We chose from the very beginning our roles, we chose who would fill them, and then when our minds drifted we chose a few weeks later to move on and forget about our group for a new set of friends.

Images for Development

A man lies passed out on a couch, black marker etched across his face and surrounded by beer cans and red cups.  Three teenage girls in bikinis are caught jumping in mid air above the mirroring waters before they plunge into a pool.  What looks like the backside of a dog has a party hat atop its tail, which wags tilting the hat to the side.  Standing alone on the dance floor, relatives watch as a couple embraces in their first dance as a married couple.

I walk past the registers and push open the swinging door as I enter the photo lab, giving the man working at the register a half smile.  I put down a few of my personal items on the table, and throw my sweatshirt under the counter.  The man I had passed was the photo lab supervisor Keith, and as he finishes with a customer he turns around to look at me.  He taps his foot expectantly and with no reaction from me Keith reminds me that the first thing I should do when I walk in is to put my lab coat on.  Begrudgingly I put the tight fitting coat on and listen as he tells me all the film he started but chose to leave for me to do.

Then as the register is switched to my numbers, and Keith is about to leave, he tells me he left a write up for my manager on me.  Still walking away, as if I’m not important enough to talk to face to face, he tells me he wrote me up for not wearing my lab coat.  Evidently a friend of his came in the night before and told him I had not been wearing my coat like I was supposed to.  The moment he steps out the door I take off my lab coat pissed and throw it under the counter with a loud bang.  My assistant manager sees my reaction and walks over to me saying, “Don’t worry, I saw the write up and threw it away.”

Two girls look back smiling; one girl’s arm reaches out holding the unseen camera.  A young boy in a cowboy outfit waves, his smile wide as the bag of candy in his arms is almost too heavy to carry.  A black woman stands bare-chested, wearing nothing but an open Star Wars Jedi robe and holding a lightsaber.  Two parents smile proudly next to their son dressed in a green graduation gown and hat.

On the floor of the store sits a young man in his twenties with his back against an end-cap at the front of the seasonal aisle.  He stares at the yellow machine that should be dispensing his photos but that at the moment is having problems.  I am posted at the register as my coworker, Matt, attempts to undo the machine and figure out the problem.  With no luck Matt is forced to call Kodiak assistance in hopes that they can solve the dilemma over the phone.  The whole time, as the young man watches Matt grow pissed at the constantly malfunctioning machinery.  The customer sits there and laughs.

Not a small laugh, a quiet laugh, or even a comforting laugh.  The sound that comes from the young man borders almost on hysteria.  His laughter is loud and he makes no attempt to hide it, which starts other customers checking out to laugh.  There is a pattern because as the customers begin laughing, Matt and I look at each other and begin to laugh ourselves.  Then as our laughter dies down, the young man begins again and the cycle to starts once more.  But the man seems lost in his own world, no longer laughing about the pictures or even Matt’s frustration, seemingly laughing for no reason.  And as he starts up again, I happen to pass by Matt and he sums up the situation easily, “The dude’s definitely high.”

A group of high school kids stand posed in their prom dresses and tuxedos in front of a black stretch limo.  Five legs point together in a circle, as five shoes attempt to make out some unrecognizable pattern.  The sun sets on a lake, but the camera’s flash left on creates a hazy look.  Half of an older man’s face can be seen, while the other half is lost behind a streak of red and yellow that becomes all black.

After I finish my dinner break I pay for a Butterfinger from Steve working the register for me and then clock back in.  I have an hour until I shut down the photo lab, and Steve tells me three rolls of film were dropped off while I was gone.  I ask him to stay up front until I finish getting the film ready to be developed and start quickly.  I pop open all three rolls of film, put them in the machine to develop and tell Steve he can go.  Finally with a moments break between customers I begin eating my night’s dessert, the candy bar.  Just as the last roll of film is finished developing the clock behind me shows ten o‘clock, and I need to close the photo lab. 

The last step in shutting off the main machine is disposing of the daily silver waste down the drain.  A large plastic container sits underneath a counter and collects the dark brown liquid.  After draining it into the photo lab sink, I put the container back and walk towards my manager Mike taking care of the register.  I take the last bite of my Butterfinger, look down at my hand and see a brown spot on my finger.  I lick it off, mistaking it for chocolate, and taste the remains of the silver waste I just dumped.  Immediately I start coughing and choking at the disgusting taste, which causes Mike to laugh at my expense.   After running to the sink to wash my mouth out, Mike looks at me and says laughing, “I think it’s about time we close for the night.”

The New Kid

Just another monotone teacher.  I’ve had hundreds of teachers just like you, Mr. Gerand.  That tends to happen when you change schools almost every other year.  Though no matter how many times, I’m always nervous the first day.  And of course I am, which explains why my hands are shakin’ behind my back.  I don’t know why I’m nervous, I don’t care what these nameless faces think.  In just a few years the Captain and the rest of the family will be movin’ to another military base, and all these people starin’ up at me will be behind me.  Oh, oops, drifted off for a sec, Mr. Monotone is pointin’ out the empty seat in the back.

Look at this dweeb.  He’s actually shaking! Ha.  Guess I got a new supply of lunch money.  Wonder if he’s smarter than Stinky Steve.  Then I’ll get even more better grades in Bio.  Guess that answers it.  Idiot’s not even paying attention to Gerand.

He is pretty cute.  I really love his hair; it looks so soft.  Aww, he’s nervous, that’s so sweet.  I should go and like talk to him after class.  It has to be so hard being the new student, and not knowing like anyone.  Maybe I’ll like get his number!  No, he probably has a girlfriend already.

I wonder if Luke Skywalker had to sit through Biology class?

 Like usual they all turn their heads to stare after me, as if sittin’ in a desk is some new marvelous technique.  I do miss my old friends from the last school though.  They were pretty cool.  Plus I had my first high school relationship, which lasted the average two hours.  Speakin’ of which, is that girl still starin’ at me?  Uh, no she turned away, oh well.  They’re only starting mitosis?  I thought I was comin’ in the middle of the year, not the beginnin’.  Least I can just sit back and pass the tests.

Oh my god, he almost saw me staring at him.  That would have been like totally embarrassing.  But those light blue eyes are so amazing, especially on a guy with brown hair.  Come on girl pay attention, you hardly understand any of this stuff.  I wonder if the cute guy understands the subject.  We could so have a study date!  Wow, I’m doing it again.  Stupid, stupid, he’s obviously too cute to be single. 

What is metaphase, anaphase and the rest of this crap?  The newb better know ‘bout all this.  He don’t then he’ll be meeting the toilets soon.  Is Stinky Steve picking his nose? Oh my god!

Almost got it.  I can feel it up there.  It’s a big and juicy one.

What in the world is that smell?  It’s like cat pee, stale bread, and cottage cheese.  Anyways, I think that girl’s pretty cute, maybe I’ll talk to her after class.  Yeah right, like I’d get the nerve to do that.  Only reason I got my last girlfriend was because she asked me out.  Come on big hand, turn.  Only got five more minutes.  Thankfully the principal held me in the office long enough to miss most of class.  It’s funny the principal thinks he’s actually fooling anyone with that toupee. 

I like cottage cheese.

This is all so stupid!  I should give the newb a good welcoming.  Wonder how much trouble I’d get into if I pantsed him in the hallway.  It’d be great if I could get Stinky Steve with him.  That’d be hilarious!

I feel bad for him, having to sit next to Steven.  Steve is a nice boy; he just so doesn’t know how to stay clean.  And he’s always eating the weirdest things for lunch.  I wonder who the new guy is going to sit with at lunch.  No, all my friends will tease me later.  I don’t care I’m so going to ask him.  But what if he says no?  I would feel so embarrassed.

What’s he lookin’ at?  Great now I’ve got the big tough guy givin’ me the stink-eye.  I don’t even have to do anythin’ and I get in trouble wit’ the school’s Nelson Muntz.  Dude next to me knows who that is, don’t you nerdy?  I think that’s where the smell’s comin’ from.  He’s so greasy.  Yes!  Finally the bell rings.  Time for English.  Now where exactly is—uh, ow.  Wonderful.  Not even finished the day and I’m trippin’ over things.

Ha!  Retard.

Oh no, he fell.  Here’s my chance.  I’ll go help him, and then we can like talk for a little.  I really should so totally invite him to eat with me at lunch.  Here I go.

Beep.  Boop.  Beep.  Boop.  If robots took over the world, I could totally be an interpreter.

Rambling Autobiography

I was born in Michigan in 1988, but my mother always forgets what city.  I am a very big dork and it took 20 years to be comfortable with it.  I have one sister who as a kid constantly fought to prove she was smarter.  She’s not.  I graduated from Nottingham High School in 2007 and could not wait to get out.  When I was younger my eyes used to change colors between blue, green and grey.  Now they only change hues of green. I hate writing in pen.  I read a lot of comics, but only if they’re Marvel.  My favorite food is pizza.  I am terrified of heights, to the point of simply thinking about being up high makes me dizzy.  I write story ideas and finished poems up on my wall.  In fourth grade I once cried to my teacher that I was so hot wearing my sweatshirt but refused to take it off because I was wearing the same shirt as the day before and was embarrassed.  As a baby, when I first grew hair it was a strawberry blonde, but eventually turned to the dark blonde of today.  When I was three I moved to New Jersey to live with my grandparents so that my father could go to school to become an x-ray tech.  I have never had a best friend.  The lanyard that I keep my keys on has twelve colored paper clips, ordered: red, pink, yellow, green, light blue, and dark blue.  I was raised a Presbyterian.  Once in high school I was called down to my guidance counselor because a teacher read a poem I wrote and thought I was suicidal.  It wasn’t until I read the poem again that I saw it could be read that way.  I sing countertenor.  My favorite superhero’s name is Wiccan and has the power to alter reality.  I hate politics and refused to vote in the 2008 election.  I love Disney World.  A man once threatened to put a bullet between my eyes because I was his son’s friend.  My clothes are ordered in my closet by type and color.  In middle school I could name almost every person in my year by at least his or her first name.  I have an over forty-degree curve of scoliosis and a thirty-degree curve of kyphosis.  Both together take away about four inches off my total height.  I took a girl to my senior prom just so that I could ruin the occasion for her.  I am incredibly shy.  For a project in my junior year of high school I wrote and bound an anthology of 100 of my poems. Although I believe in God, I do not like religion of any kind.  In my pant pockets I usually carry the same objects each day.  In the left front pocket is my iPhone.  The front right pocket holds my pencil, chapstick, and keys on my lanyard, which falls out and down my leg.  My back right always has my wallet with a few dollars and my Rowan ID.  I have thirteen Indonesian aunts and uncles, and even more cousins.  Because of that we never once had a traditional Thanksgiving.  There was always some Asian food thrown in.  A man once told me my name is the only name that is also an acronym indicating a sequence in time.  I didn’t understand until he listed the months off from July to November.  The first test I ever failed was on the skeletal system, even with both parents who took x-rays for a living.  I have never said a curse word in my life. Wherever I walk I am always listening to music.  I hope to one day to have enough prestige as a writer to take Marvel superheroes and write short stories with them.   I have had two jobs; the first was in the photo lab at CVS and as a camp counselor at a day camp.  A teacher I worked as an assistant for told me she did not see me becoming a teacher, but saw me on a picture on the back of a book.  I’m not sure if that is good or bad.  I have never been good at small talk.  The last year I played baseball I had a batting average of over 600.  My fielding skills were poor, but with an average higher than any major league player my coach usually put me as the extra hitter.  I take pride in using words to their utmost meaning. A lot of people think I have a flippant attitude because I shrug things off easily.  They misconstrue it as not caring.  In truth, I just don’t like holding on and brooding about the unimportant.

The Young Invaders

     Walking down the streets of New York City, two men stopped before an old cobblestone apartment building.  Talking to each other, the pair was unaware of the children sitting on the stoop. 

     ”They need to build that bridge they’ve been talking about, ” the first man said waving around his newspaper like a gavel.  “It will create jobs…build revenues.”

                 “What are you going on about now,” the second man said.  “Why do you care?  You have a job. You have money.  You have a nicer house than me.”

     ”Ah, what do you know?  You’ve heard what they been saying, because of the war the economy is going down.  You hear me, we’ll be in a depression soon.”

     ”You’re all wet.  Let’s go inside, I’m tired of ‘hearin’ you,” the two men walked in the building arguing with each other.

     ”All they do is gripe,” from the arm of the stoop Namor McKenzie jumped down onto the pavement.  He wore nothing but trousers rolled up above his knees.  Usually shirtless and without shoes, Namor loved the water, and even when not swimming favored the freedom from clothes.  Our mothers looked down upon our casual friend for showing so much skin, as it was not acceptable.  His jet, black hair was cut short and sleek, accompanied with his green eyes and pale skin, he seemed out of place compared to the Italians and Irishmen of the neighborhoods.  We would poke fun at him for his looks, calling him a mutant, which he would say set him apart from us commoners.

     ”So do you, bimbo,” sitting with his back against the door Jim Hammond smiled over at Namor.  His fiery, yellow hair shone in the evening sun against his tan jacket, as his amber eyes stared back at Namor taunting him.  The two friends were the same age and the best of friends, though Namor would never admit it.  Jim was almost always laughing, he joked about everything and was known to take risks.  He almost never went anywhere without his lighter, continually lighting it, running his hand through the flame and blowing it out.  Jim enjoyed fire and igniting things on fire, and captivated our friend Tommy Raymond with his flame.

     Tommy was the shortest of our group, as well as the youngest, leaving two months between the two of us.  The son of two established scientists Tommy was known to be the smartest, though the fact did not carry much weight in our little group.  His hair was usually greasy and matted, his clothes often unkempt.  He was the stark opposite to Jim, and it was that difference that led to Tommy’s idolizing.  Sitting on a step below Jim looking up at his hero he softly laughed at the statement, but was not quick enough to cover it from Namor.

     ”What are you laughing at short-stuff,” Namor said.  Grabbing Tommy by the shirt he lifted him up, off his step.

     ”Let Tommy go Namor,” Jim said, he lit his lighter and blew it out wit one hand while grabbing a piece of paper from his pocket with the other.

     ”Why, you gonna do something about it?” Namor smirked down at Tommy raising his arm above his head.

     ”Maybe,” and without blinking Jim crumpled the paper into a ball, lit it on fire and flicked it at Namor.  Tommy fell to the ground sprawled across two steps as Namor jumped back swatting the paper away.  Tommy scrambled to get up, rushing to sit behind Jim.

     ”You think you’re tough don’t you Tommy, hiding behind your big friend.  Just wait…he won’t be there one day,” Namor turned his back to us, going to leave.

     ”What are you lollygaggers doing?” opening up the front door of the building Stevie Rogers stepped out and looked down at his friends.  “Namor you going somewhere?”

     Stevie was the leader of our group, the same age as Namor and Jim but still their older.  He stood taller than all of us-his golden hair and pretty-boy features made him the center of attention.  Everybody liked him, and there wasn’t a single girl in the neighborhood that didn’t love those blue eyes.  His reputation even extended to the adults, and all our parents would at least once say, why can’t you be more like Steve Rogers?  If Tommy idolized Jim, than I worshipped Stevie and the ground he walked on.

     Namor grumbled but turned back around jumping up again on the arm of the stoop.  Stevie smiled as he sat down next to me on the bottom of the steps.  He looked out at the street, at the people walking by, and up to the nearly cloudless sky.

     ”Some picture, huh, Bucky?”  Along with his amazing looks and smiling attitude, Stevie was becoming an artist.  He would draw all sorts of pictures, from nature to city life, in his free time.  Stevie’s artistic skills was most known for a fairly accurate picture of an older man who lived down the street and had fought in the army, holding an American flag.

     ”Yea, I guess so Stevie,” I said.

     ”What should we do today Buck?”  Stevie had given me that nickname a few years ago.  My full name is James Buchanan Barnes, but as there was already one Jim he said everyone would call me Bucky.  I was two years younger than the older guys; at ten I still wore the mother’s comb-over hairstyle that would stay with me for years to come.  My hair was a plain, indiscriminate brown, and my eyes followed suit.  Compared to the camera boy that was my icon, I was boring and painfully normal.

     I shrugged my reply, and sat back laying my elbows on the step above.  Next to Stevie I felt strong, there was no one and nothing that could hurt me.

     ”Why should he get to pick,” Namor said, grumbling to himself.  “All we do is sit around beating our gums, can’t we do anything exciting.”

     Jim’s head popped up, “I’m up for exciting.”

     ”Fine Namor, what do you have in mind?” Stevie looked up at Namor with his calm behavior that always unsettled Namor.

     ”Well-well how would I know?” Namor stammered.  “You’re the leader, cake-eater.”

     ”I saw some gangsters going into an old warehouse,” Tommy said talking to Jim.

     ”How do you know they were gangsters?  You wouldn’t even know if Lou Gehrig walked right into you,” Namor said.

     ”Lay off him Namor,” Jim said, standing up to face Namor.  “I’m tired of you hassling Tommy.”

     ”Oh, is big bad pyro gonna hurt me? I’m so scared.  I forgot you have to protect your little follower there, wouldn’t want to lose your best buddy,” Namor again jumped from his seat and scowled at Tommy.

     ”Jealous no one likes you, fish boy?  Stevie over there has Bucky, I got Tommy, you seem to be friendless,” Jim said.

     ”Okay hot heads, let’s just calm down.  There is no reason to fight just because we’re a little bored,” Stevie got up calmly and stood in between the two friends.  “You are just going to get us in tr-” without warning a baseball flew at Stevie’s head but he was able to avoid it.  In the direction the ball came, a boy ran off into an alley across the street.

     ”After him,” Jim yelled.  The group of us all ran after the mysterious intruder, Stevie being the most athletic of the group was in the lead, spurred on by his outrage of being threatened.  Stopping at the entrance Stevie waited for everyone to catch up and looked down the long backstreet.  A small rock went by Stevie’s head, missed again, but hit Tommy in the nose.  Tommy fell to the ground, clutching his bleeding nose, crying out in pain.  Namor looked down at the younger friend, ground his teeth and took a step towards the alleyway.

     ”Don’t Namor,” Stevie said calmly.  Surprised at the composure of his friend, Namor jerked back when Stevie lifted his hand to stop him.

     Down at the end of the lane, caught in a dead end stood Johann Schmidt, the neighborhood bully.  If we had been in a comic book Johann would be Stevie’s archenemy; Johann picking on any younger kid while Stevie watched out for them.  Johann had been hurt in a terrible accident that burnt his head and face leaving both scarred.  Because of the cruelty of children he was tormented for his looks, until he decided to take out his anger on any deemed weaker.

     ”Aw did da big ol’ pebble hurt da wittle baby,” Johann said.  Laughing at Tommy laying on the ground, Johann casually tossed another stone in his hand.  “What are you looking at Rogers?”

     Without a word Stevie picked up a metal pipe lying on the ground and took a step towards the bully.  Swinging the pipe to feel the weight in his hands, Stevie walked closer when Johann threw the second rock. Stevie rolled, hitting the side building but stood up unscathed picking up a trash can lid for protection. The projectile soared past the target and was caught by Namor, who gripped the stone so hard his knuckles turned white.  Walking right up to Johann, the pipe raised menacingly Steve stared the bully down.

     It seems one of the biggest injustices of childhood is the appearance of any parent when these situations occur.  At that moment Mrs. Rogers, seeing Tommy on the ground, came to see what was going on.  She first saw Tommy’s face covered in blood, but Jim assured her he had helped to stop the bleeding and that Tommy was fine.  Looking down the alley Mrs. Rogers saw Stevie threatening Johann and exploded.  She yelled for him to come to him and scolded her for even thinking about hurting that frightened boy with a pipe.

     ”If I ever see you holding that pipe or anything like it again you will be punished mister,” and with that Mrs. Rogers left walking back to their apartment.  Snickering to himself, Johann slipped behind the group and out of the alley running down the street.  Passing a younger girl walking the opposite direction, the bully pushed the girl into a garden of flowers and continued on.  Running after Johann, Stevie threw his trash can lid hitting the boy in the back causing him to fall.  Before Stevie could catch up Johann had jumped up and run around the corner to safety.

     Walking back with lid in hand Stevie checked to make sure Tommy was all right and helped him up.  The older boy spun his tin shield in anger, upset that he was unable to pay back the bully for what he did.  Namor threw the rock down the backstreet where Johann had been standing a few minutes ago and sighed.  Jim stood flicking his lighter on and off in obvious agitation.  I stood next to Tommy, as we both looked between the three angered friends and then to each other sharing worried glances.

     ”We have to do something about red face,” Namor said.  But neither of the two other friends said another word about the bully.

     ”Maybe we should all just get home,” Stevie said still looking down the street where Johann had fled.

     ”You aren’t going to go after him,” Namor said.  “You know all he is going to do is hurt other little kids.  Why don’t we just take care of him, and teach him a lesson once and for all.”

     ”Stevie’s right Namor.  There is nothing we can do right now anyways.  You’re mom might not care where you are, but my dad will kill me if I’m not home soon.  Come on Tommy I’ll take you home,” and with that said Jim and Tommy walked back in the direction of their houses.

     Stevie left without another word or a glance to Namor or myself walked back to his house, up the stoop and closed the door hard behind him.  Namor slumped his shoulders and walked off in the direction of his house, leaving me alone.  I stood there for a little bit longer.  I could hear Mrs. Rogers yelling at Stevie for what he did, and how his father would react when he heard about it all.  As the sun set on our quiet street, the wind picked up and blew into my face pushing in my breath.  I was left balled up and speechless as the neighborhoods mightiest hero seemed fallen by parental imperceptions.

     ”Tomorrow we’ll get him Stevie, we have to,” I said and left for my house.

     Gail Davies sat on a park bench, crying.  I walked with Stevie through the park, looking for some guys to play ball, when we saw her.  Her reddish-brown hair drooped over her face as she sobbed into her hands, rocking back and forth.  Stevie ran to Gail’s side and asked her why she was crying.  Standing to the side I kept to myself, not wanting to intrude, though I moved close enough to hear them.

     ”Yesterday I took my mom’s golden necklace, so I could show it off to everyone,” Gail said, sniffling.  “I was coming back from school and Johann was walking down the street…he broke my mother’s necklace.”  Gail started crying again and Stevie wrapped his arm around her shoulder trying to make her feel better.

     ”It’s going to be ok Gail,” Stevie said.  I had never seen him act so caring in all the time I knew my friend.  Stevie was known for being considerate of everyone; in fact it’s what I admired him most for-he always looked out for me.  But sitting there with Gail crying, Stevie was tender.  “Bucky and I are going to make sure he gets what is coming to him, don’t you worry.”  For the first time since seeing her, Gail looked up and smiled at the both of us.  I understood the change I saw in my best friend-Gail was beautiful.

     Making sure she was fine by herself, Stevie and I left Gail to go find the rest of our friends and tell them what happened.  Sitting on our stoop, Stevie coordinated how he was going to get Johann back.

     ”So do you all understand the plan?” Stevie said.  “Namor you’re going to have to go get a wrench from the construction site for your part.  Jim, get Tommy to help you get as much paper as you will need, you’re the fire expert.  But when it comes down to it, Tommy and Bucky, you two need to stay clear of the fight.  Bucky your mom will tell my mom, and I’m already in enough trouble from yesterday.”

     ”Tommy same goes for you,” Jim said.  “Your parents don’t like you hanging around me anyhow.”

     ”This ain’t gonna work,” Namor said.

     ”It will if you actually listen to Stevie, flipper boy,” Jim said.

     ”Trust me Namor, if everybody does what they’re supposed to do, it will work out perfectly,” Stevie said, and with that the group split up.  Namor walked down the street, turned the corner and disappeared in the direction of the construction site.  Jim and Tommy walked to the bottom of the stoop and turned to cross the street to their houses.  Stepping on the sidewalk, Jim bent down to pick something up and turned back around.

     ”Catch, soldier,” Jim threw the trash can lid from the day before to Stevie, threw him a fake salute, and walked off with Tommy.

     ”That gives me an idea. Come on Buck.”

     A few hours later, after all the preparations were finished Stevie positioned everyone for their contributions to the plan. Jim kneeled behind a Ford Model T, with his paper and lighter ready, along with some liquid Jim said would help the papers burn.  When Stevie wanted Jim to start the attack, and move from his position he would whistle once.  Namor would sit up on a tree on the sidewalk that grew next to a fire hydrant; he was to stay unseen until Stevie whistled twice.  Stevie would stand across the street, hiding in the alley next to the neighborhood butcher and wait until Jim and Namor took Johann by surprise.  I was to watch everything from the end of the street, on the stoop of where Mr. Metzger, the butcher, lived.  Everything started with Tommy, who Stevie gave the job of enticing Johann to the spot everything would go down.

     ”Now Tommy, you have to make sure Johann sees you,” Stevie said.  “He should be coming by any time soon, and should walk right by here.  Make it look like you’re upset and I’m sure that bully will not miss an opportunity to make fun of you.  The moment he comes up to you I will whistle for Jim to start, so don’t be worried that you will get hurt.  When Jim starts you run off and go meet Bucky over at Mr. Metzger’s, you got me?” and with Tommy’s nod Stevie ran off to his hiding spot.

     After a few moments, Johann came around the corner walking towards where Tommy stood alone.  The bully had his hands in his pockets, a smirk on his pimply, scarred face.  Tommy was brilliant; the moment he saw Johann coming nearer he put his hands over his face and started sniffling.  A few steps away Johann heard Tommy crying, smiled even wider stretching the scars across his face, and walked up to the younger boy.

     ”Your nose still hurting baby Tommy,” Johann said.  “Or did you realize your mommy and daddy love science more than they love you.”  Johann snorted as he laughed and did not hear the whistle that came from across the street; the first signal.

     All in one motion, Jim dipped a ball of paper in the mysterious liquid, lit the paper on fire, and sprung from his position quickly throwing the ball of flames.  Tommy sprinted in my direction, leaving a surprised Johann behind him just as the ball hit at his feet.  The flammable liquid splattered fire in every direction when it hit the ground, spraying Johann’s feet causing him to yelp in pain.  Infuriated, the bully turned to see his aggressor just in time to dodge a second projectile thrown at his feet.  Johann screamed at Jim and moved towards him, but jumped back and ducked, as two balls of flame came at him, first at his feet then his head.

     While Johann cringed, Stevie signaled Namor with two whistles, and the shirtless boy fell from the tree.  Namor grabbed hold of the wrench he had tightened earlier around the valve of the fire hydrant pointing straight at Johann.  Pulling down, releasing the built up pressure, water sprayed directly towards Johann and hit him, knocking him on the ground.  Drenched and staring at the pavement, Johann roared his frustration and stood up.  Looking around, both boys could not be found, and the hydrant had been closed off as if nothing happened.  Angered and confused, Johann glared between the hydrant and the parked car, grumbling to himself and looking up Johann saw Stevie across the street.

     ”What are you looking at Schmidt?” Stevie said, mocking Johann.  The boys stared at each other from opposing sides of the street, and for a moment everything was still, nothing moved.

     ”Rogers…” Johann said, mumbling under his breath.  Without another word, Johann picked up two rocks from the ground, tossed the first at Stevie’s head and the other slightly lower.  Stevie ducked the first as it flew past, crashing through the butcher’s window, and stood up ready for the second with his trash can shield.

     Earlier, as everyone was getting ready for the fight, Stevie had taken me up to his room and pulled out some of his paint supplies.  Grabbing a brush and tubes of red, white and blue paint, Stevie sat down on the floor with the lid in front of him.

     ”These are left over from that painting everyone thinks is the bee’s knees,” Stevie said.

     ”What are you going to do with them?” I asked.  Stevie simply smiled and got to work, painting the one side of the lid.

     Standing across from Johann, Stevie held his shield out in front of him, colored with red, white and blue rings and a white star overlaid upon them.  The second rock hit off the shield and fell to the ground at Stevie’s feet.  It was exactly as he had said would happen, and as I knew it was my part of the plan, I turned and knocked on Mr. Metzger’s door.

     ”Are rocks all you have to fight with Johann?” Stevie called out.  Johann was getting angrier, as Stevie taunted him from across the street, but only picked up more rocks to throw.

     Johann threw another at Stevie’s face, which was easily blocked by the emblazoned shield but also caused Stevie to obstruct his sight.  The second came low and to his side, but again Stevie blocked the rock, swinging his shield out and batting it away.  Stevie’s swing left his chest open though, and knowing this would happen as he threw the second rock Johann looked for his next hit.  There on the ground by his feet was a rock that had been splattered with Tommy’s liquid fire.  Johann quickly picked it up carefully, threw the stone at Stevie who could only roll to the side to dodge the attack.  The burning rock sailed passed the older boy and broke another window in the butcher’s shop, falling on a chair and lighting it on fire.

     The moment Johann threw his final shot at Stevie, Mr. Metzger had opened the door to see me pointing out the bully down the street.  Understanding, instantly what was happening to his store, Mr. Metzger ran off to see the damage that was done.  Stevie ducked back into the alley he had hidden in earlier without Mr. Metzger noticing him.

     ”Johann Schmidt come here,” Mr. Metzger said, pointing at the sidewalk.  Johann reluctantly obeyed, crossing the street and Mr. Metzger barged through the door to put out the fire.

     ”Guess that is it for you, Red Face,” Stevie said coming out of the alley.  “You finally get what you deserve.”  Without another word, Stevie gave a farewell salute to Johann and ran off to where I was still standing.  Jim and Namor had joined Tommy and I earlier to watch the fight at Mr. Metzger’s stoop.

     ”See,” Jim said, nudging Namor’s arm.

     ”Steve got lucky,” Namor said.  Namor crossed his arms but could do nothing but smile as Stevie ran up to our group of friends.  Each person patted Stevie on the shoulder or on the back, telling him how well it all went down.  Stevie, always humble, congratulated everyone on doing so well, and told us he could not have done it with out us.  As I stood next to Stevie, looking up at the proud older boy, I knew that this was a moment we would never forget.

     ”We got him Steve Rogers, we did it,” I whispered.

just as a note all the characters, though my own personal take, are created and copyrighted by marvel comics. the plot is my own and not a take on any other previous story of the invaders

The Fall for a Silent Voice

     There is a story in everything. In ever sight, every sound, every smell there is a story; you just have to be willing to tell it. I lay under an autumn tree, gazing up through the branches. Patches of sky can be seen through the thinning leaves. Those that have already fallen rest underneath me, softening the ground.
     I watch as a slight breeze picks a single leaf and breaks it off the tree. Its golden brown hue glitters in the sun as it dances above me. I wonder what that leaf’s story is. The beauty and mystery behind it is there, but where is the story? I find my role as the storyteller to be far too difficult at that moment. It is not enough to write of the sharp edges, the rusty color, and the holes within like eyes that stare back. Somewhere inside the one leaf is a story completely lost to me.
     My frustration is broken when the leaf covers the sun, hiding it from my sight. I laugh recalling a day long gone. Isaac, a childhood friend, plays in the front yard of my house as I sit on the porch. Calling for me to follow, Isaac runs around the corner of the house and out of sight. Quickly I move around to the side of the house and see him lying on the ground. With a leaf in his hand he raises it up to his face moving further and closer to his eye.
     I stand over him watching his odd motions with a curious look, when he pats the ground beside him inviting me. I lie down beside him and he turns towards me and places the leaf over my eye. He moves his head close to mine to make sure he moves the leaf just right and then lifts it up. As his hand and the leaf both raise further away from my face, they cover the sun. The light pierces the leaf like film and I can almost see through it. Within this one leaf are veins as complicated and diverse as those within me.
     Then as Isaac brings the leaf back down to my face the color changes from light pale to a dark rich green. The bigger veins become more pronounced while the smaller ones seem to disappear behind the shadows. The leaf and Isaac’s hand rest upon my face. I shiver slightly at the tickling sensation of both and laugh. Lifting away from my face, the leaf brushes across it and I move along with the feeling. I find myself looking over at Isaac who stares back smiling, as he lies close beside me.
     My daydream is broken and I am pulled back under the tree. The breeze died and the leaf slowly falls to the ground. Spinning round and round it falls closer and closer to me. The circular motion is hypnotizing. My eyes follow the spinning leaf as it tumbles over showing its two colored sides. The first was the golden brown I saw as it was pulled from the tree. Though brown, it does not seem dirty or splotched. Its opposite side is a bright red that pulses in the sun’s warmth.
     The leaf, blown by a light breeze, spins in place quickly. The red swirls together in one dizzying circle I am lost in thought again. I am driving on a two-lane highway just as the sun is setting. It is raining fairly hard, and the wind whips around the car. The intensity of the wind the trees are almost all devoid of leaves, as they litter the roadway.
     Slowly I begin to pass a car on my right. In the back I see a young girl dancing around in her seat to an unheard song. Her scarlet hair moves back and forth across her face until she stops to look over at my car. She sees me watching her dance and gives me a big smile and waves frantically. Slightly embarrassed at being caught, I give a small smile and wave back.
     She turns her head back around and all I can see is her bright red hair. Suddenly my car slips on a large patch of wet leaves. I spin out and lose control. In the moment of fear I can’t remember to turn in or out of the spin. My body is whipped around the seat, I hear a loud crash and everything stops. I can feel pieces of glass that shattered and stuck into my skin. My vision is blurred and I try hard to refocus but to no avail. A trickle of blood flows down my face.
     Finally focusing directly in front of me I realize that the front of my car has smashed into the back passenger side of another and in the window is a single hand sprawled palm up. I am not sure if it is feeling all the stress of the situation, the fear of the accident all coming down at once or the sight of that little hand so motionless, but at that moment I break down crying. I am completely unable to move, hoping if I sit motionless the situation will disappear and it will all just be a terrible nightmare. I want so much for that hand to make some movement, I need it to be waving at me once more, otherwise the implication is to terrible for me to even begin to understand.
     I am brought back to the present by the touch of the leaf as it falls upon my face. It rests right under my eye and wipes away the single tear that had fallen. I take the leaf in my hand and twirl it between my thumb and forefinger. I sigh staring at the red side of the leaf thinking back at that little girl. I visit her mother, who was driving, almost once a week now. She never once blamed me for what happened. I think she knew how much I blamed myself and saw no point in causing me more pain.
     Unable to look at the color any longer I flip it over and think back to the day I spent with Isaac. It had been an amazing day for me, and one in which I will never forget. I no longer speak to Isaac; the years had separated us a long time ago. But every time I find myself with a leaf in my hand I put it up to a light and stare at the intricate details within. I laugh as the veins disappear and reappear, now, moving it closer and further away from my eye.
     There is so much within this one leaf, the multiple lines that show just how detailed even the smallest life can be. Even the varying colors reflect the complexity that one leaf can have two sides at all times. Again twirling the leaf in my fingers I smile despite myself. Who would have known the leaf’s story was my own?

Fishing Trip: May 29, 2007

     Tyler is close to twice my size, standing on that grimy old boat, holding the day’s catch. We almost look like twins, except my height and Tyler’s haunted look of age. In fact, Aunts and Uncles usually say we look identical but that I was the twin that shrunk in the wash. Looking up at my eighteen-year-old brother his shoulders are broad, manly and his chest is thrust out, proud of the large bass he holds. But his face betrays him, unshaven and rigid, the smile is unnatural. His hair unkempt, falls over his forlorn, shadowed eyes. The ups and downs of the night have left him exhausted.
     We pose on the small deck of that terribly kept boat, held together by duct tape and luck. Old netting is strewn across the sides and catches our feet at a final attempt of their forgotten job. A mixture of bait and sea water sits in the corners staining the white paint. Rust has begun to encroach, no longer fought off by the boat’s captain. Tyler has given up on it, and the boat now shows what his smile tries to hide.
     As the camera shutter snaps shut Tyler sighs and his shoulder slump. He knows the shutter is not all closed off to him. The day is over and it is time to go home. A tear rolls down his face, cutting a line through the dirt of his unwashed face. Mom and Dad will be waiting, I will go home, but Tyler already is. I’m to young to know why; all I know is my brother no longer lives with me. And for that last moment we stand beside each other, as two brothers always will.

Fireworks: July 4, 1956

     The family is all outside in our backyard talking about work, their houses or, in the case of Uncle Johnny, another one of those quick-fix ideas he’s swindling grand mom. They all migrate towards the back of the yard where Lois set up all the food, but in the front of me is Michael holding tight his bright red ball. He never goes anywhere without that ball, along with Lois’s protest because he tends to break things. But that’s my boy, the future pitcher for the New York Yankees.
     The sun is blinding or the heat is making the air shimmer because Michael’s face seems hazy, almost obscured from sight. You can make out his hair, cut short and parted to the side, an obvious sign Lois had gotten to it earlier trying to make him presentable for the family. His cheeks are a faint pink and freckled giving him a boyish quality that will probably last him his whole life. But his smile has disappeared, the one I called his fighter’s smile because he had just lost his first tooth. And those clear blue eyes the one’s that will drive the girls wild when he grows up, you can’t see them at all.
     He stands restless next to me, fidgeting, excited to take part in the night’s festivities. He jumps up and down and swings his arms back and forth, calling to the family to get ready. Was it all the excitement that he wanted my attention, or maybe just another accident Lois always feared? That little red ball leaves Michaels hands flying straight for the just lit firework he had picked out on his own. It flies past his face and bursts blue and white for the Yankees over our neighbor’s yard. He falls to the ground, clutching his face, screaming out for Lois. No girl will ever fall for those eyes, he will never look down the pitcher’s mound of Yankee’s Stadium, you can’t see his eyes; but I always will.

Disappointment

      “You had to open the window and ruin my hard work,” my father tells me.

     Standing in my doorway, screaming at me as if I had committed a great atrocity, my father glares down at me.  My shoulders slump forward as I sit on the edge of my bed, partially because of the lecture but mainly because of my bad back.  As I grew up my spine had curved giving me both scoliosis and kyphosis.  It usually doesn’t hurt me unless I am very tired or very hot.  That was why I had opened the window, to cool my room down, but my father would not listen.

     When I was ten years old I remembered him yelling at me.  I had spent most of the day riding my bike, but as I placed it in the garage I had scratched his car.  The scratch was nothing big, located at the bottom of the side bumper I assured myself he would never see it.  Later that night as I cowered in my room, gripping my pillow, a loud slam and my name yelled out stopped my heart.  My father thundered into my room, grabbed me by the neck, and pulled me into the garage.  Now, my father borders on obsessive to an unhealthy degree when it comes to his car.  This is a man that can yell, red-faced at a three year old for putting a finger on the window and making a smudge.

     Leaving me cowering against the garage wall, my father returned into the house and came back with a notebook of great importance to me.  Filled with hundreds of Pokemon cards, some worth quite a lot, my father began shaking them out of their protective covers.  Stepping on a few for good measure with his favorite red slippers, my father told me if I did not respect his things he would do the same for mine, and then left telling me to clean up the mess.  Crying and shaking from fear, I picked up the cards thinking only two thoughts.  One, that the breeze coming from the garage door felt good against my back, and two, that my father must love his car a lot more than he did me.

      “You have nothing to say, nothing at all?  It’s like you don’t care, like you’re some sort of sociopath,” my father tells me.

     Months before, having come home for winter break, I lay in my bed asleep.   Someone sitting on my bed and pulling at the covers woke me up.  It was early morning, and being the weekend I did not want to be up, so I paid no attention to them.  Nudged a few times and asked if I was asleep I grunted my reply.  I turned over to see my father sitting there in shorts and his favorite red slippers.  Not wanting to talk or even see the man, I turned back over and closed my eyes.

     The day before he had yelled at me, scolded me and said terrible things, simply because he thought I had made a wrong choice.  In all my life I have never gotten into that much trouble, my parents never grounded me once; but that was over.  The day before he told me that he owned me and because he paid for my college, I would live under his rules until after graduation.  He told me that my life for the next four years was to be focused on schooling and nothing else, no relationship; nothing.

     As I lay there holding on to my pillow, hoping a cool breeze would help my aching back, I refused to answer him.  He tried to get me to understand what he did was out of love and that he meant the best for my future.  He told me he did not want me to be upset or depressed but I had brought this upon myself.  Evidently when I was older I would understand, but until then I had to trust the man that ended my life. I was filled with anger and hate, and I would not give him the satisfaction of a reply.

      “You can leave this house if you don’t want to be part of this family,” my father tells me.

     As I lower my head, I notice my father is still wearing his favorite red slippers.  I can almost see the green bow I had placed on them years ago on Christmas Eve.  Sitting on my pillow on the floor beside the tree Christmas morning, I can feel the cold air wrap around me as I finished opening presents.  Reviewing everything I had gotten that year, I looked under the tree to see the unopened presents. Each was my father’s, who was working that Christmas at the hospital.  As a child it seemed unfair, Christmas was a time for the family but year after year my father requested it for his holiday coverage.

     I had picked out the soft, red slippers on my own, and felt proud having been able to pay for them with my own money.  But they would remain there until the next day, where he would open them without me, returning home early to see his presents under the tree.  I brought my legs up to my chin and shivered as a cold breeze wrapped around my back.  I would wish every year he would be there that Christmas, but every year he seemed not to be part of the family; exempt.

      “He has become such a disappointment,” he tells my mother.

Throwing out a Question

So for any fellow writer writer i have a question.  Ive been writing a poem for about two years now and its not even close to being finished.  It has been forever since ive been able to start it up again, i just cant seem to get into the mind set of writing it.  I dont want to leave it to be an unfinished piece, so im asking you for ideas on how to get the creative juices flowing (as cheesy as that sounds).  If there is anyone reading this that has had similar experiences or whatever, what did you do to write again?