Stranger

She's going nowhere. The energy of the early morning walk to school has left her, evaporated, like a puddle under the burning African sun. Grades slipping, friends fading, lost. No one cares, her friends think she is heartless, her teachers think she is difficult, but they cannot see the sadness in her heart. Like a parasite; it is eating her up bit by bit. She lives only for the weekends, but those short forty eight hours slip away like sunlight, those few moments of freedom spent in front of a dead computer screen, waiting for something that she knows will not come. But suddenly, one day, running along in P.E she stumbles, and falls. "I can't do this anymore", she mutters, and her failure flashes in front of her eyes like a sign, mocking her. A short burst of laughter escapes her dry, cracked lips, as she remembers a similar scenario, way back then.

Slowly, but surely, she picks her self up and begins to run on. "You will finish this whispers a voice in her ear", but when she turns there is no one there. Suddenly, there is the finishing line and with a sudden burst of energy she surges forward, a winner in last place. And with that small triumph she makes a promise to herself, "never again".

Slowly but surely, her heart begins to mend, she joins the choir, gets an A in the end of year spelling test. She is not the person she longs to be, athletic, skinny, a super model with unmatchable charisma. But she is always there, to lend a pencil or help with a particularly tricky math problem and suddenly she notices she's not alone. People have accepted her, she finds invites to parties and movies more frequent, and people stop to talk with her, like she's worth something; not a nobody. For the first time in her life she is never alone, and with a small toss, the razor blade is gone, she is whole again.

Dot Dot Dot, Dash Dash Dash, Dot Dot Dot

What, do I owe you?

You gave me ugly and made me fat.

You took support and you way of being a good parent is driving me around and cooking.

You never see.

See, that I am always on the brink of tears.

See that I want to understand.

See, that I never do.

One day, one long, tiring day, when I woke up you were gone. I had a mound of homework and chores to do. I did my chores. I started on my homework. But then it got cold. So unbearably cold. So I took to my room and wrapped myself in my duvet. And then I woke up. It was dark out and cold in. I had slept, for four hours. So I walk into the living room and there you are, just sitting there, watching the telly. "Do you not understand how far behind I am" I want to scream at you. "Do you not get that every day I come home to mounds of meaningless papers, which I am supposed to complete but do not understand?" But no, you do not understand, you do not see. I look into the mirror and see a fat, unhappy girl, falling behind in school, and in life.

No drive, no power, helplessly buffeted by the currents of fate, her big brown eyes; always filled with tears, tears that are threatening to spill out and drown the world in sorrow and pain and emptiness.

“Am I really this shallow?” I wonder, “To be obsessed with doing better when what I have is what most kids in Africa dream of?”
But it is not easy, being in a group of academics, always doing better, always reaching higher. I know I must work to achieve, but the days stretch out into nothingness, and the paper is blank, meaningless, sitting there, mocking me.

I hate my life, I want to end it, but I’m too pathetic to even kill myself.

And life goes on, dragging me with it.

Damn. I have been writing really depressing stuff lately, haven’t I? But this is how some kids feel, and it is those kids who my heart goes out to, because at least in Africa they don’t have little miss sunshine pageants.

Nowhere

When I was little I couldn't wait to be fourteen.

Well here I am, fourteen and nowhere.

I want to reach into the past and pick up my younger self, and rattle her until she's dizzy. "YOU HEAR THAT", I will say, "THAT IS THE SOUND OF A LUNATIC, THE SOUND OF SOMEONE WHO HAS NOTHING TO LOOSE".
Then maybe, my younger self could go and jump off the roof, an action fueled by fright, perhaps she could save us the trouble of having to do it later, prevent the tears and the bloodshed.

My life is filled with stars, sparkling from the sky, and I am a tree, rooted firmly to the ground, and only the wildest storms can fling me to the heavens. I am rooted down, down with the nowhere kids, with the poor and homeless and stupid. I walk around like a cuckoo clock, wandering in circles till I'm dizzy. Open and close the doors. Push in the chairs. Un -blinking, staring off into space, a million miles from anywhere and nowhere. I am a robot; for obey commands, no real purpose, there is no life inside, I am just an empty metal shell.

I was up shit creek, and I had found my shovel, but then there was a landslide and I am now without a spade again, caved in and fighting to survive.

Time goes on. Tick tock on the clock, where is the party that don't stop no, oh oh whoa, oh oh whoa. My wanderings have taken me to the yard and a cold breeze rustles me from my trance like state. I hold up my hands, and flex my fingers as if for the first time. Such a simple action moves me to tears, and suddenly I am lying in the grass, sobbing helplessly into my red tee shirt, my shoulders hunched over and shaking. This is me at fourteen. This is what my life is. Trapped by my tears.

You must lie in your bed the way you made it, they say.

Well my bed is nowhere to be found.
The only place I can lie in is my grave.

AUTHORS NOTE: Hope you liked it, no worries, completely fictional, this post is dedicated to all the depressed and down teenagers in the world.

Potatoes and a Pocket Full of Coins

peice I did for english, I hope it's okay :)

Ross isn’t usually a smiler. But today he smiles at every cyclist, jogger and ice-cream stained toddler he sees as he strolls down the bustling avenues of Dublin city. He grew up on a potato farm just out of the city, with his mother and older brother James, but now he has a small farm of his own. He never married, for Ross is the kind of person who is just content to watch, not join in. Despite being alone and on the wrong side of sixty four, he smiles as the bright silver coins jangle in his pocket, the morning well spent.

In appearance, he resembles one of Santa’s elves, with his round, cheerful face, squashy strawberry nose, twinkling eyes and cheeky grin. He never made it beyond five foot four, and despite being a farmer, he rarely wears clothes that portray his rural background, choosing comfy jeans and woollen jackets over coarse overalls and chequered shirts like many of the men in his neighbourhood choose to wear. Wrinkled and balding, he is kind of man you would expect to play an elderly grandfather on a TV programme.

The old bus gives a grunt, and with surprising agility for a man of his age, Ross leaps onto the side ladder as the bus chugs off toward his neighbourhood. As the bus is passing through the outskirts of Dublin, there is a sound, and look, up there on that balcony, there is a young boy – no older than seven or eight – singing. I used to sing like that, Ross thinks and suddenly he is overcome with nostalgia, and longing for the old days. Yes, life was hard, but it was happy.

He can still remember the warm summer evenings, when their small community would meet in the old barn for food, music and idle chatter. He can remember the cold winters, when he would curl up with his mother and older brother in the big bed, covered in blankets and fighting to keep warm. The autumns, spent playing conkers with the grocers boy and the neighbours sons, golden and brown leaves falling off the trees like snow, covering the forest floor in a cloak of majestic red and gold. There are also things he’d rather forget. Like the time he grew some lettuces in a spare garden patch, and he went around to doors to sell them, but the when the lady answered the door he’d been too shy to say more than ‘would you like these’, so she thought they were a gift, and with a polite thank-you, took them. Then he went home and drew a green car, flying across a purple sky.  There was also the time he had to sing a solo in church, and was so frightened that he had simply apologised to the congregation and fled the church. Ross has always been terribly shy, and it has done more to hinder him than help him.

The bus has finally arrived at his stop, and so, thanking the driver, he hops off and strides up the path to his cottage. He unlocks the door, pulls open the curtains, and the dark room is suddenly bathed in a golden light. “SURPRISE” cry the people situated in the kitchen, and look, there’s his mother, his brother and family, the neighbours and all of his childhood friends. There’s the grocer and the postman, and every single one of them has an identical grin from ear to ear. As they break into a chorus of happy birthday, he wipes a tear from his eye. “I didn’t know you cared” he whispers, as he is enveloped by the sea of arms.

Competition (continued)

I walked up the stairs and grinned like a lunatic. You know that moment when you have to walk up for an award, but are dreading it, but when you’re on stage you can't help but smile? Well that’s how I felt, and head held high, I strided on to the stage, happy as Larry. The choir came on to tumulus applause, just wait till they hear out first piece I thought, nearly laughing out loud at the idea! Then the audience went silent and Mister Stewart picked up his conductors baton..........

"JOSEPH"
We yelled, shrieked and sang our hearts out in that wild, crazy song, and the audience, was whispering and nudging the whole time, caught completely off guard. I hope I didn't miss any cues though. The next piece was The Seal Lullaby, a nice, mellow piece about a baby seal. But that made no difference to the amount of applause we got, and at the end of Mai Glochen, the audience were ecstatic (they were for every choir, but it's nicer to think that we got an extra special applause). Then it was over, dinner break, oh joy.

The Cantala girls were going to eat together at a place called the Beijing, and after changing shoes (superman chucks! - which got some nice comments) and into a hoodie, I shouldered my backpack and tagged along with the others. They walk so slowly! I could have walked to Readings in the time they took!

Dinner was weird. I don't really know anyone, so I was just standing around like a loony until I was offered a chair at a table. So why didn't I just sit down anywhere? Well, those girls are all friends with one and other, so I wouldn't want to be a seat snatcher and piss anyone off, would I? Dinner was a merry affair, with, you guessed it, laughing, chatting and goofing around. My table group had lots of fun with the lazy Susan, putting their cell phones on it and spinning it around a few times before snatching them off the still rotating platform. It was fun, but I just read until Molly texted me with her and Francesca’s location, so I shouldered my backpack, and sauntered out of there like it was completely normal to go to dinner, then leave half way through without eating anything. The next twenty minutes was spent chasing Molly and Francesca around town, and we eventually ran into each other outside fix. Then, we proceeded to head on up to the bridge above civic square, and we sat there for a bit before Molly and I set off to the ice cream place, because it closes late on weekdays. The ice-cream was good, but we had to eat as we walked to ensure we got back in time. The gala concert was good. More entertaining acts, only one song from each choir this time, plus, this time I was actually kind of sitting with Cantala. Not really though. Time flew by, and before I knew it, the East choirs were called for warm ups (minus junior choir). It was good. Multi and senior were there, and everyone had a laugh. Then senior went. Then Multi. Then one of the FBI guys came in and said we had better head up there because it the Cantala/multi girls were probably finding it a tad awkward standing up there on stage by themselves, and so smiling away, the lovely girls of Cantala indulged the audience in another performance, and it was fab.

Not the greatest entry, but hey, now I can put more interesting stuff up for you guys to read. Final word from me is a HI to Sherrianna who did not go (you missed out on heaps), and a word from the music prefect Rebecca13 who says that everyone enjoyed themselves. Hope you guys don’t mind me mentioning you in this post (IF you two read this, which I sincerely doubt)
Laters!

Competition

Big Sing, at last.

I really can't find all the words to describe it. So for now, I'll just go with wow.

And even that word in all its epic proportions can't fit the bill.

It started at nine thirty, when we all met in the civic square, and everyone - looking fab in their winter uniforms- was doing the usual, laughing, chatting, goofing around and chasing the pigeons. I got a bribe to wear my hair down, and now have a ten dollar Australian bill to add to my collection.
After meeting with my friends and being excitable and what not, I set about finding people from the junior choir to sign the cards I had made for Susanna and Niamh, our choir Directors. It took ages, and it was quite a feat getting it done without them noticing. We had already (we being Francesca and I) dealt with most of the signing at school, because I thought it would be good to give them the cards on the big sing. Eventually, we got let into the town hall, and wow that place is ginormic. It has plaster walls with little Victorian (?) ornamentations, a marble floor in the foyer, and schmany looking pillars scattered all over the place. After the usually talk by the stage manager, the first choir went out to perform. I was amazed. Never bored, constantly on the edge of my seat, and always in high spirits.

In a surprisingly short time, it was lunch break, and we were all shooed outside for a five minute lunch break before the junior choir sound check. I speedily ate my cookie (there isn't much in the way of nutritional stuff at Fix), and then hurried inside to wait for everyone else.

Then, just after one, who should come up to talk to me but Rowena (?). Apparently I was wanted on the hall, something about Cantala.

I swore, and then sprinted of into the hall, my friends’ laughter echoing in my ears.

I leapt onto the stage and scampered up the choir rises, just in time too. I don't think (hope) that Mr Stewart was that mad.......

Holy night was okay, but as soon as it was over, the other junior choir girls and I hurried over to the west foyer place, the other year nines had arrived. Pretty much, this year it became compulsory for year nines to join junior choir, resulting in much messiness. I felt SO sorry for Susanna and Niamh; I'll have to admit they did a great job though. We were the first to perform after lunch break, and it would be nice of me to say that people were punctual but as usual, there was the usual dribby drabby. Junior choir totally impressed me. I expected carnage. We sounded okay. Good. Great. Well, great may have been pushing it but it was fun :)
And if I do end up getting kicked out of Cantala at least I'm still in a choir.

Then it was rush rush rush to the changing rooms to switch into my Cantala uniform. Can I just say ugh. It isn't a bad uniform; just I ain't accustomed to wearing skirts. Because we had left partway through a performance, I waited for the year nines to finish so I wouldn't go in on my own in the middle of something. They. Took. Ages.
I shouldn't be surprised, but I was anyway. The performances flew by, and they were just as amazing as the one in the morning session. Instead of joining the Cantalians like the year nines did, I went back and sat with my year Ten pals, which made the performance that bit less enjoyable because I had to keep an eye out for when the others left to go backstage.

Finally, it was time. We hurried backstage in our fantastic (apart from my skirt issue) uniforms, and several people asked me "Where are your shoes"?!?!For, being the person I am I had carried those foot eaters instead of wearing them. I did have them on me though. No way would I turn up to the big sing without part of my Cantala uniform! The idea makes me shudder! Warming up was - unexpectedly - fun, and everyone was excited and bubbly, as per normal. Then the call came for us to move into the green room. May I mention that some people (I won’t names names) chose that time to have a potty break, fantastic timing guys :)
At first glance everyone was cool, but the twitching limbs, sweeping eyes and trips back and forth to the water cooler showed that most of them were just as nervous as I! I was going to be fist to walk onto stage, and believe me I was not looking forward to it. Then one of the FBI people (called because of their black clothes and earpieces) motioned us to come and wait by the stage steps. And it was show time.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH! I cut it off just at that exciting moment! Just like those irritating TV programmes! This has been a really bad blog entry, but I think that it's allowed, because it's only a recount of the epicest day ever. To be continued shortly........

Be

I have now been told, by numerous peoples that my blog is weird.

Should I give it up?

The answer is clear, no.

I have been told I'm not going to make it, or, I'm a loser more times than I can count in my life, and if I stepped down from the plate every time someone passed a snide comment, I wouldn't be here at all. I would just be an empty shell, a plastic bag, drifting in the wind.

No, I'm not that good at school. I'm not thin, blonde or beautiful either. I can go to the extremes at either end of the sociality scale, and I can't dance to save my life.

So what should I do?

Should I hang myself? Shut myself in my room and refuse to come out? Turn to drugs to block out the pain?

No.

There are thousands of beautiful, smart, talented people out there.

There are millions of others who are not.

And it is those millions of others that the media targets everyday. We have been brainwashed, and all just so that the big corporations can squeeze a few extra bucks out of us.

Being different doesn't make you a nobody. Thinking or acting differently from others doesn't make you a retard. And everyone has the potential for greatness, just on different scales.

I will not submit, no matter what. Because I am not a rug, and will never, Ever be one.