Post by Harley Scarow on Mar 18, 2007 21:57:26 GMT -5
Episode 2: Retouch
My name is Lena. Yes, I’m one of Peter’s friends. One of his true friends, although the budding and rotting rose may not realize how much I care about him deep down inside. Many around Peter tend to talk behind his back and say things they would never say if they were directly in front of him. However, I’m that one moonlight that refuses to shine in his face while he sleeps and drives him crazy. Yes, I’m that radiating glow trying to make him have a smile on his face without another person making tears run down his face one more time. To the final truth, I care about him more than most people do. While many always say they don’t have the listening ears to absorb the green words he has to say, I’m one to stand up and tell them I’m there to hear the confusing words. Even if they make little sense, they make a world of knowledge nobody else in the world recognizes to the littlest extent. It’s painful to walk through the day and see the rose left out of the garden to rot in the melting sunlight rather than the balance of shade and light shedding on the rest of the kids. It is more exhibitions for him, behind the frames of a garden.
“How can I believe in faith when there’s no faith to believe in? When is a rose not a rose but simply the beauty of your imagination? How can I go through, knowing it is all false?”
Today, Peter wants to take it to the next level. He had always talked about doing things for the better and helping when his friends needed him the most. At many occasions, Peter would talk about how he would save everybody if his friends were in danger, and even offer up his existence to see their light for another minute. Light was truth, and his dreams were nothing but the foot of shadows—it could never be accomplished. The machine outside causing this terrible weather change, and magical destruction within the school was a feat to remember, and know as the waves surged through my long, black hair. The pain was invisible, but to see him run outside and try to make a difference is a gorgeous act of beauty, even in front of lies and eyes of running rejection. Even with today’s bleeding rip, I knew I had to do something to help my friend, while everybody would fear in crutches as to this suicidal attempt, to love and to make dreams true.
“Please, Peter, don’t go outside. This isn’t one of those idiotic dreams you have that you always tell us during lunch! This is real life, at least let me help you.” My words were drowned out by his blind ears, even if I was the only one speaking to him. The hallway stood in silence at this running illusion, of passing nightmares. How a friend who had so much trouble meant to me.
“Dreams can be a reality, when fire burns through flesh,” Peter randomly yelled.
“But flames can kill you; my slothful heart can drown it out for you!”
“And your wills can never penetrate me, Lena. This is the secret I should have told you.”
“And the covert vision would never realize the truth. This specialness shatters greatly.” It was the same voice speaking earlier to Peter, the voice of confusion and a signal of death.
The sound screeched through the air. All of these magical devices, yet destructive realities were passing hellish signals through the explosives arrays as they were absorbed in a green and yellow ray of light into a hole. All of them entered the screech of envy, through the narrowing exit’s back way and once smattered through the trapping windows. How safety was a ring away, but left to rot within the hands and eyes of those who saw it. Those with willing intelligence would survive the wave, but those without a mind of a higher purpose could only perish inside of it. Oh, but it did not even mean anything, not a single word of truth. The flashings of lights were just a dizziness stage, of falling heads and slow minds to look away from the light. Yet it attracted the same attention Peter always wanted. They were hurt, the kids who did not have any link to friendship, bur were rather the simple background characters. These were the close-minded students whom would roam the halls without further intention. This makes me a hypocrite, calling them this when I should be accepting everything. For myself, I am sorry as well.
“What is that voice?” it was true, I was hearing it too. Yes, I heard it a while ago, even when Peter was yelling to himself those things he said he would do. The pain would soon pass.”
With force, Peter screamed. “Please don’t steal this freeing opportunity for me!”
Before Peter was able to jot down this forgotten road anymore, I took my hands and grabbed him by the stomach. He obviously did not know when something was over, it was over. Especially when a mysterious aura cause such as this would end, the best to do was leave the entire position to the officials. Let what the snakes who did this or the light above suffer in an organized way, rather than let me and my friends see what they would eventually feel. Like I would say sometimes, “The past is better forgotten than to grieve over. The only thing we could ever get from remembering is why we hold our poison to begin with. We never chose it, but we have to hold our bellies in pain.” Why Peter would refuse to let go of what was better was another idea we would be ill with for, day after day. A single spark of rage, even one of minority and meant for delicate laugh put him off. How I wanted to teach him this—it was not a part of life.
Wind flew out paper from his pocket.
Although Peter saw it fly out, he did not pick it up. Yes, I had the curiosity to put it into my hands and read it silently in front of him. Deep down, Peter liked getting attention like this, always making these hushed accidents to get others to see what he was doing within himself.
~ * ~
Shattered Chance
The light emits with passion on my head,
The silent emotions passing at stars,
The voice emitting deep trance, hushed up reds,
And then tomorrow’s wishes are afar.
Together strongly bondage I forgot,
The shines would rain and eternal strong run,
And those begin to glow rock and strong sought,
The strong glass and rocks break through ever tones.
My tomorrow arrives and classes past,
The huge return has hardened stones and bones,
We never should have wandered in the past.
My ponder rains on foreheads as I prance,
To walk into the light, my shattered chance.
~ * ~
“Poetry…is this your poetry, Peter?”
Even though he heard me, Peter didn’t turn around.
“It’s a sonnet,” I muttered as I read it again. “It fits all of the conditions—three quatrains and one couplet, ten syllables per line, iambic pentameter, represents death, everything fitting so.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you later…” Peter mumbled as he walked away.
“I’ll see you later too…”
* * *
It was about time for me to go home, not as if home was what the shielding was. The covering shields above my head were trapped with a leaf storm, composed in red, orange, and yellow in all flavors. They danced upon the appearance, how my caring abode along with my normal neighborhood was not affected by anything. What happened in the school seemed to have remained inside of the school, or rather outside. Now what should I do? With what happened, day after passing day, I would get confused. Should I go for advice—the one I gave out?
A leaf flew in the air and landed on my face. It had to be some kind of a sign. It meant I would go out and hunt for the advice I wanted to get. This advice had no question, but it was a fact I wanted to figure out myself. It was covered with layers of misunderstanding, so I advanced towards those leafed doors leading to the forest lying next to my house. Only I would be able to see these invisible doors, these doors that never even existed. Why? Because I was the only one who knew it existed, and the voice spoke to me in the wind everyday, the lasting innocence.
Upon entering the forest, one of my good friends snuck over from the overshadowing trees and made her appearance in front of me. This was not the friend most people would guess her appearance to be. My friend was a poisonous snake, a cobra that could easily take my life in the snap of a fang. However, even though my footsteps stained her land, it laid down perfectly, of love and caring passion. Nobody knew clearly about the advice I went to, how it was such an outlandish way in a busy neighborhood. Deep down, I cared about its presence everyday.
“Will you give me some of this advice?”
My friend stood there, without the flicker of a single word, as if she was mute. She was a gentle, green, brown, and reddened snake among the forest’s glow. This imaginary forest that only I would be able to see, and at the same time, it was existent to the touch, surrounding with shield and protection I always needed. Giving advice whenever I wanted it to do so, my friend Rose spoke to me in silent words, within my ears as the earth’s brown vibrations travelled through the air and guided me. A pencil and a piece of paper snuck out of my pocket and began to write.
“Thank you.”
After a few seconds passed, the pencil dropped to the ground and shattered to pieces of lead, like the magical forest it was surrounded within. What was written was nothing but nature, the essence of words transformed into a picture of flowers and rivers. It was a signal for what I should do later, for me and my friends. The effort of creativity illuminated with strong ferocity—it’s how we are all in the top class, and we try to be humble with the gift we speak to each other every passing day. Everything was our muse, and what was drawn showed me in order to make sure everybody’s gentle gift would be showered onto the rest of the world; it would have to be spoken out loud. Life’s random truths led again, I was about to enter a poetry contest.
“Hopefully, this works. The sun rises with happiness, upon our respect and values.”
The best thing for me to do was go downtown and arrange all of the appointments I would have to make in order to get the show rolling on the river. Most people think making a difference, creating an entry of enjoyment with your own hands was either what rich people could do, or those high school students on television could only scarcely accomplish. They were wrong—if you wanted to make a difference, even if it was for a couple of friend’s enjoyments, you would have to be the one to generate that gift. Most people take it for granted, and scan through their mind wondering why they were never able to do so, when the roses budded right in front of them, with their thoughts being the stem. With the dirt pure in my brain, I was washing it out with how I wanted to do this. A phone call could get my friends over in less than an hour, because they trusted me and I valued them with all of my skill. Now I would soon go there.
It was true—New York City has one of the most complicated systems when it meant getting downstairs. At the same time, it meant complication with guided and born knowledge meant a wave of convenience. The subways were everywhere, at least one in every ten blocks. Where I was currently was no exception, with one right down the block. The opportunities were endless when it meant getting downtown, like all the roots were interconnected underground. The difference was that these groups were not as clear and fluid compared to the ones the earth wishes to make grow again. They were often tangled and crashing towards each other, the subways and other blocks. Nowadays, it was the most logical way to get around the city, even if riding the subway meant trampling over those guiding roots. The train station’s cement rushed above the ground, where I could hear the calling of cars and trucks, as if they would break.
It was purposeful—I reached downtown, where I wanted to be. One of the most famous places in the world lay under my feet, Manhattan. However, being here was second nature to me, as if there was any nature here to begin with. Ironically, I was standing in a natural sanctuary right now, the central park. It was the only sense of relaxation anybody in this borough could even think about going to if they wanted to get away from the city. While the land was not as beautiful and gentle as the magical sanctuary I knew everyday, it was worthy to walk into without a thief running your way and breaking your day. The perfect place for a poetry contest, if there was not many already being participated. The environment set for a track’s race and a gentle hike on the playful mountains ahead of me. Even the committed stages made their way to preserving the land, being set on the already natural stones where poets could write and dancers could sing.
Coincidentally, a pamphlet flew in the air and landed on my face, which I read to myself:
++++++++++
Solar Globe
Poetry Contest
We wish you would just come and see the light,
It would be nice and help to strong return.
You would go come and see the dazzle sight,
And never regret the sunlight’s strong burn!
Themes: Spring/Sun/Light/Plants
Location: Solar Globe, Central Park
Time: Afternoon until sunset
Prize: $1,000 and more stuff!
++++++++++
“Wow, what a coincidence. Maybe my friends should enter this contest.”
So I called some of my friends—these included Sabrina, Ryan, Ali, Ash, Veronica and John, the ones riding the bus with me everyday to and from school. Of course, Peter rode the bus with me everyday, but I never got his phone number. Why it never occurred, I would never guess. He never gave it to me, and maybe I forgot to ask him amongst the shit-storms he faced repeatedly whenever we met him. Yes, Peter would love entering these poetry contests—he would always tell me about how he entered them, and lost the majority of them. He did have a couple of wins, like one in every five contests, but he had fun. If only Peter was able to somehow come over, it would be a difference in competition. His poetry was kind of confusing. Truth is, if I understood Peter’s predictability as much as I knew him, he would already be at the contest, as there were only so many in the city being thrown at the same time. Roses would bud among the Solar Globe, which was recently finished when I read it in the news a little while back. The one without any senses made quick feel upon the sound of focused, flowing words from mouth.
At least I would be able to prove myself. Then again, why would I need to show others if I blossomed or not? Whether I did or did not accomplish it halfway through the school year, the best thing for me to do was to try my best in the upcoming competition. Rivals are the budding seeds that sprinkle me to raise everyday—the best thing for me to do was to try. Think about it—I already came over here in hope of having my other friends to stream here and we would have our own competition together. No, the best thing for me to do was to try. With that thought, I took out my cell and dialed random numbers, hoping they would eventually come over to be with me, even if Peter wasn’t here right now. They deserve to have the same fun I would eventually have, even if it was a lack of other things they could be doing at the same time. The scents of approach would eventually drift in the air, after I finished calling all of them.
* * *
After an hour or so passed, the friends I was calling came over, eager to listen to what I had to inform them about. It was more than what I wanted them to do, but they were my friends. Yes, they had the decency to stop whatever they were doing at the moment and come over to me, even if what they were doing was important. It made me feel greedy, but they were anticipating my words to direct them into another sense of enjoyment. Even if the bitter sun ahead had his randomness of being shielded by snow and sleet randomly, the best thing to do was incorporate with the current conditions. All the people I called were there, Sabrina, Ryan, and Ali—the friends I rode on the bus with everyday. If you thought about it, there was a common scent of delight in the air, how imagination flows within guess. How everything we do can lead to a bit of wonderment, and strike us at the last second. They must have been travelling together in some way, like the way friends would whenever they needed. I wish Ali, John, and Veronica came.
“Thanks for coming. Let’s enter the poetry—”
A striking wind flew through the air. It was a gesture of randomness, swift as the birds flying above us as they came over for the spring and upcoming summer. How arbitrary life can be when it wanted to. Suddenly, among the leaves of arrival, a loud screech zoomed through the air like a ripping tree being cut down. It was as loud as the cries of a plant when she is ripped through from her loving home. My ears were being covered by my hands, unable to grasp the dead woodened cries constantly rushing down my face. It swept through my hair like the painful screeches constantly piercing through. The crimson layers of hair on my head were never to be noticed, but lately they shined through the rest of the dark abyss my hair formed constantly, of questioning whims and wonders. It interrupted my words, of these winding trees and bluing skies, moving away from what I heard. It came from the Solar Globe ahead, where all of us were about to go to. Realizing I could heal two birds with one gesture, I began running down the stone-paved road, with my friends questioned in wonderment—the weirdness of my own self.
* * *
In the long run, my friends and I made it to the location we were so desperately seeking—the Solar Globe, where the poetry contests would soon begin. Although I mentioned the word poetry before I was interrupted, and began wildly running towards the location, they might not have gotten the idea about what they should have done yet. The Solar Globe was yellow and green beauty surrounded with the mist of trees and ponds. It was the location foil compared to the rest of Manhattan, with its busy streets and common deaths. The stage was surrounded with roses and an imaginary sun overhead below its real father. The sunlight reached in common gold towards the area, making the location a perfect place for a poetry contest. Shining roses and birds would sing towards the area, and even the busiest souls did not mind sitting down for a few minutes simply to hear words of magic trickle down somebody’s mouth in perfect elegance. My friends must have already guessed that I wanted them to enter this poetry contest, or at least knew the location had a sense to do with poetic notions. It was about to begin, and it would sure be fun.
My name is Lena. Yes, I’m one of Peter’s friends. One of his true friends, although the budding and rotting rose may not realize how much I care about him deep down inside. Many around Peter tend to talk behind his back and say things they would never say if they were directly in front of him. However, I’m that one moonlight that refuses to shine in his face while he sleeps and drives him crazy. Yes, I’m that radiating glow trying to make him have a smile on his face without another person making tears run down his face one more time. To the final truth, I care about him more than most people do. While many always say they don’t have the listening ears to absorb the green words he has to say, I’m one to stand up and tell them I’m there to hear the confusing words. Even if they make little sense, they make a world of knowledge nobody else in the world recognizes to the littlest extent. It’s painful to walk through the day and see the rose left out of the garden to rot in the melting sunlight rather than the balance of shade and light shedding on the rest of the kids. It is more exhibitions for him, behind the frames of a garden.
“How can I believe in faith when there’s no faith to believe in? When is a rose not a rose but simply the beauty of your imagination? How can I go through, knowing it is all false?”
Today, Peter wants to take it to the next level. He had always talked about doing things for the better and helping when his friends needed him the most. At many occasions, Peter would talk about how he would save everybody if his friends were in danger, and even offer up his existence to see their light for another minute. Light was truth, and his dreams were nothing but the foot of shadows—it could never be accomplished. The machine outside causing this terrible weather change, and magical destruction within the school was a feat to remember, and know as the waves surged through my long, black hair. The pain was invisible, but to see him run outside and try to make a difference is a gorgeous act of beauty, even in front of lies and eyes of running rejection. Even with today’s bleeding rip, I knew I had to do something to help my friend, while everybody would fear in crutches as to this suicidal attempt, to love and to make dreams true.
“Please, Peter, don’t go outside. This isn’t one of those idiotic dreams you have that you always tell us during lunch! This is real life, at least let me help you.” My words were drowned out by his blind ears, even if I was the only one speaking to him. The hallway stood in silence at this running illusion, of passing nightmares. How a friend who had so much trouble meant to me.
“Dreams can be a reality, when fire burns through flesh,” Peter randomly yelled.
“But flames can kill you; my slothful heart can drown it out for you!”
“And your wills can never penetrate me, Lena. This is the secret I should have told you.”
“And the covert vision would never realize the truth. This specialness shatters greatly.” It was the same voice speaking earlier to Peter, the voice of confusion and a signal of death.
The sound screeched through the air. All of these magical devices, yet destructive realities were passing hellish signals through the explosives arrays as they were absorbed in a green and yellow ray of light into a hole. All of them entered the screech of envy, through the narrowing exit’s back way and once smattered through the trapping windows. How safety was a ring away, but left to rot within the hands and eyes of those who saw it. Those with willing intelligence would survive the wave, but those without a mind of a higher purpose could only perish inside of it. Oh, but it did not even mean anything, not a single word of truth. The flashings of lights were just a dizziness stage, of falling heads and slow minds to look away from the light. Yet it attracted the same attention Peter always wanted. They were hurt, the kids who did not have any link to friendship, bur were rather the simple background characters. These were the close-minded students whom would roam the halls without further intention. This makes me a hypocrite, calling them this when I should be accepting everything. For myself, I am sorry as well.
“What is that voice?” it was true, I was hearing it too. Yes, I heard it a while ago, even when Peter was yelling to himself those things he said he would do. The pain would soon pass.”
With force, Peter screamed. “Please don’t steal this freeing opportunity for me!”
Before Peter was able to jot down this forgotten road anymore, I took my hands and grabbed him by the stomach. He obviously did not know when something was over, it was over. Especially when a mysterious aura cause such as this would end, the best to do was leave the entire position to the officials. Let what the snakes who did this or the light above suffer in an organized way, rather than let me and my friends see what they would eventually feel. Like I would say sometimes, “The past is better forgotten than to grieve over. The only thing we could ever get from remembering is why we hold our poison to begin with. We never chose it, but we have to hold our bellies in pain.” Why Peter would refuse to let go of what was better was another idea we would be ill with for, day after day. A single spark of rage, even one of minority and meant for delicate laugh put him off. How I wanted to teach him this—it was not a part of life.
Wind flew out paper from his pocket.
Although Peter saw it fly out, he did not pick it up. Yes, I had the curiosity to put it into my hands and read it silently in front of him. Deep down, Peter liked getting attention like this, always making these hushed accidents to get others to see what he was doing within himself.
~ * ~
Shattered Chance
The light emits with passion on my head,
The silent emotions passing at stars,
The voice emitting deep trance, hushed up reds,
And then tomorrow’s wishes are afar.
Together strongly bondage I forgot,
The shines would rain and eternal strong run,
And those begin to glow rock and strong sought,
The strong glass and rocks break through ever tones.
My tomorrow arrives and classes past,
The huge return has hardened stones and bones,
We never should have wandered in the past.
My ponder rains on foreheads as I prance,
To walk into the light, my shattered chance.
~ * ~
“Poetry…is this your poetry, Peter?”
Even though he heard me, Peter didn’t turn around.
“It’s a sonnet,” I muttered as I read it again. “It fits all of the conditions—three quatrains and one couplet, ten syllables per line, iambic pentameter, represents death, everything fitting so.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you later…” Peter mumbled as he walked away.
“I’ll see you later too…”
* * *
It was about time for me to go home, not as if home was what the shielding was. The covering shields above my head were trapped with a leaf storm, composed in red, orange, and yellow in all flavors. They danced upon the appearance, how my caring abode along with my normal neighborhood was not affected by anything. What happened in the school seemed to have remained inside of the school, or rather outside. Now what should I do? With what happened, day after passing day, I would get confused. Should I go for advice—the one I gave out?
A leaf flew in the air and landed on my face. It had to be some kind of a sign. It meant I would go out and hunt for the advice I wanted to get. This advice had no question, but it was a fact I wanted to figure out myself. It was covered with layers of misunderstanding, so I advanced towards those leafed doors leading to the forest lying next to my house. Only I would be able to see these invisible doors, these doors that never even existed. Why? Because I was the only one who knew it existed, and the voice spoke to me in the wind everyday, the lasting innocence.
Upon entering the forest, one of my good friends snuck over from the overshadowing trees and made her appearance in front of me. This was not the friend most people would guess her appearance to be. My friend was a poisonous snake, a cobra that could easily take my life in the snap of a fang. However, even though my footsteps stained her land, it laid down perfectly, of love and caring passion. Nobody knew clearly about the advice I went to, how it was such an outlandish way in a busy neighborhood. Deep down, I cared about its presence everyday.
“Will you give me some of this advice?”
My friend stood there, without the flicker of a single word, as if she was mute. She was a gentle, green, brown, and reddened snake among the forest’s glow. This imaginary forest that only I would be able to see, and at the same time, it was existent to the touch, surrounding with shield and protection I always needed. Giving advice whenever I wanted it to do so, my friend Rose spoke to me in silent words, within my ears as the earth’s brown vibrations travelled through the air and guided me. A pencil and a piece of paper snuck out of my pocket and began to write.
“Thank you.”
After a few seconds passed, the pencil dropped to the ground and shattered to pieces of lead, like the magical forest it was surrounded within. What was written was nothing but nature, the essence of words transformed into a picture of flowers and rivers. It was a signal for what I should do later, for me and my friends. The effort of creativity illuminated with strong ferocity—it’s how we are all in the top class, and we try to be humble with the gift we speak to each other every passing day. Everything was our muse, and what was drawn showed me in order to make sure everybody’s gentle gift would be showered onto the rest of the world; it would have to be spoken out loud. Life’s random truths led again, I was about to enter a poetry contest.
“Hopefully, this works. The sun rises with happiness, upon our respect and values.”
The best thing for me to do was go downtown and arrange all of the appointments I would have to make in order to get the show rolling on the river. Most people think making a difference, creating an entry of enjoyment with your own hands was either what rich people could do, or those high school students on television could only scarcely accomplish. They were wrong—if you wanted to make a difference, even if it was for a couple of friend’s enjoyments, you would have to be the one to generate that gift. Most people take it for granted, and scan through their mind wondering why they were never able to do so, when the roses budded right in front of them, with their thoughts being the stem. With the dirt pure in my brain, I was washing it out with how I wanted to do this. A phone call could get my friends over in less than an hour, because they trusted me and I valued them with all of my skill. Now I would soon go there.
It was true—New York City has one of the most complicated systems when it meant getting downstairs. At the same time, it meant complication with guided and born knowledge meant a wave of convenience. The subways were everywhere, at least one in every ten blocks. Where I was currently was no exception, with one right down the block. The opportunities were endless when it meant getting downtown, like all the roots were interconnected underground. The difference was that these groups were not as clear and fluid compared to the ones the earth wishes to make grow again. They were often tangled and crashing towards each other, the subways and other blocks. Nowadays, it was the most logical way to get around the city, even if riding the subway meant trampling over those guiding roots. The train station’s cement rushed above the ground, where I could hear the calling of cars and trucks, as if they would break.
It was purposeful—I reached downtown, where I wanted to be. One of the most famous places in the world lay under my feet, Manhattan. However, being here was second nature to me, as if there was any nature here to begin with. Ironically, I was standing in a natural sanctuary right now, the central park. It was the only sense of relaxation anybody in this borough could even think about going to if they wanted to get away from the city. While the land was not as beautiful and gentle as the magical sanctuary I knew everyday, it was worthy to walk into without a thief running your way and breaking your day. The perfect place for a poetry contest, if there was not many already being participated. The environment set for a track’s race and a gentle hike on the playful mountains ahead of me. Even the committed stages made their way to preserving the land, being set on the already natural stones where poets could write and dancers could sing.
Coincidentally, a pamphlet flew in the air and landed on my face, which I read to myself:
++++++++++
Solar Globe
Poetry Contest
We wish you would just come and see the light,
It would be nice and help to strong return.
You would go come and see the dazzle sight,
And never regret the sunlight’s strong burn!
Themes: Spring/Sun/Light/Plants
Location: Solar Globe, Central Park
Time: Afternoon until sunset
Prize: $1,000 and more stuff!
++++++++++
“Wow, what a coincidence. Maybe my friends should enter this contest.”
So I called some of my friends—these included Sabrina, Ryan, Ali, Ash, Veronica and John, the ones riding the bus with me everyday to and from school. Of course, Peter rode the bus with me everyday, but I never got his phone number. Why it never occurred, I would never guess. He never gave it to me, and maybe I forgot to ask him amongst the shit-storms he faced repeatedly whenever we met him. Yes, Peter would love entering these poetry contests—he would always tell me about how he entered them, and lost the majority of them. He did have a couple of wins, like one in every five contests, but he had fun. If only Peter was able to somehow come over, it would be a difference in competition. His poetry was kind of confusing. Truth is, if I understood Peter’s predictability as much as I knew him, he would already be at the contest, as there were only so many in the city being thrown at the same time. Roses would bud among the Solar Globe, which was recently finished when I read it in the news a little while back. The one without any senses made quick feel upon the sound of focused, flowing words from mouth.
At least I would be able to prove myself. Then again, why would I need to show others if I blossomed or not? Whether I did or did not accomplish it halfway through the school year, the best thing for me to do was to try my best in the upcoming competition. Rivals are the budding seeds that sprinkle me to raise everyday—the best thing for me to do was to try. Think about it—I already came over here in hope of having my other friends to stream here and we would have our own competition together. No, the best thing for me to do was to try. With that thought, I took out my cell and dialed random numbers, hoping they would eventually come over to be with me, even if Peter wasn’t here right now. They deserve to have the same fun I would eventually have, even if it was a lack of other things they could be doing at the same time. The scents of approach would eventually drift in the air, after I finished calling all of them.
* * *
After an hour or so passed, the friends I was calling came over, eager to listen to what I had to inform them about. It was more than what I wanted them to do, but they were my friends. Yes, they had the decency to stop whatever they were doing at the moment and come over to me, even if what they were doing was important. It made me feel greedy, but they were anticipating my words to direct them into another sense of enjoyment. Even if the bitter sun ahead had his randomness of being shielded by snow and sleet randomly, the best thing to do was incorporate with the current conditions. All the people I called were there, Sabrina, Ryan, and Ali—the friends I rode on the bus with everyday. If you thought about it, there was a common scent of delight in the air, how imagination flows within guess. How everything we do can lead to a bit of wonderment, and strike us at the last second. They must have been travelling together in some way, like the way friends would whenever they needed. I wish Ali, John, and Veronica came.
“Thanks for coming. Let’s enter the poetry—”
A striking wind flew through the air. It was a gesture of randomness, swift as the birds flying above us as they came over for the spring and upcoming summer. How arbitrary life can be when it wanted to. Suddenly, among the leaves of arrival, a loud screech zoomed through the air like a ripping tree being cut down. It was as loud as the cries of a plant when she is ripped through from her loving home. My ears were being covered by my hands, unable to grasp the dead woodened cries constantly rushing down my face. It swept through my hair like the painful screeches constantly piercing through. The crimson layers of hair on my head were never to be noticed, but lately they shined through the rest of the dark abyss my hair formed constantly, of questioning whims and wonders. It interrupted my words, of these winding trees and bluing skies, moving away from what I heard. It came from the Solar Globe ahead, where all of us were about to go to. Realizing I could heal two birds with one gesture, I began running down the stone-paved road, with my friends questioned in wonderment—the weirdness of my own self.
* * *
In the long run, my friends and I made it to the location we were so desperately seeking—the Solar Globe, where the poetry contests would soon begin. Although I mentioned the word poetry before I was interrupted, and began wildly running towards the location, they might not have gotten the idea about what they should have done yet. The Solar Globe was yellow and green beauty surrounded with the mist of trees and ponds. It was the location foil compared to the rest of Manhattan, with its busy streets and common deaths. The stage was surrounded with roses and an imaginary sun overhead below its real father. The sunlight reached in common gold towards the area, making the location a perfect place for a poetry contest. Shining roses and birds would sing towards the area, and even the busiest souls did not mind sitting down for a few minutes simply to hear words of magic trickle down somebody’s mouth in perfect elegance. My friends must have already guessed that I wanted them to enter this poetry contest, or at least knew the location had a sense to do with poetic notions. It was about to begin, and it would sure be fun.
