You know when you're sitting in class, distracted by something else? Not really wanting to be there? So you let your mind wander, imaging yourself someplace else? Creating another, parallel world similar to your own only more.. entertaining? Yeah. This is that:


With every word, I feel the teacher degrading me, judging me. She's eying me, glaring at me. She knows I didn't do my work and whatever flimsy excuse I conjured in the hallway, she's ready to shoot down. Even her hand gestures are intimidating She's pointing, accusing. Why didn't you do your work? What's with you? Shape up!

Her eyes are ablaze with accusation, boring into my very core; reducing me to a pathetic mass, huddled in a dark corner of unworthiness. That's what she wants, to throw me out of her class, casting me off as a sorry excuse for a student. She can't bear to look at me and I'm too ashamed to raise my head to face her.

Her words keep coming. The class is participating. They know as well. They hate me for showing up. They hate me for the hours they spent slaving over their desks and notes while I did God knows what all evening. They won't look at me. They're too good, too studious, to waste their time sending me a chastising word or even a glare. Dear God, I wish they would glare! Just one, sinister, cold-hearted glare. But, no, they're too focused on the work before them, too engaged with the teacher. They're saying, "See this is how it is done. This is how a student behaves." Their chants grow louder and louder in my head until it's one deafening ringing noise.

Damnit, where is that bell? Where is the shining beacon of hope that will save me from this torture? 2:57. Three more minutes. 180 agonizing seconds before I'm freed.

Outside, people are in the hall. They're talking, laughing, communicating with one another. How I yearn to join them! To be free...

I'm staring at the door now, longing apparent on my face. I'm wondering if I can master the art of astral projection in less than 3 minutes. I think I can, I think I can. There's no place like... anywhere but here.

BRRRINGG!

Hallelujah! I leap to my feet, bag in hand, bounding for the door.

"Uh... Miss Johnson?"

Shit.

"Would you mind coming here for a moment?"

Yes, actually, I mind very much. "Yes ma'am?"

"Were you absent yesterday? I don't have you marked... but I'm missing your assignment."

Relief washed over my being. I smiled inwardly. "Why, yes, yes ma'am, I was."

"Can you turn in your assignment tomorrow, then?"

I could have kissed her! "I'll have it on your desk by 8am, if you like."

She smiled. "That won't be necessary. Just turn it in when you can."

.:~o*'Kaylyn'*o~:.

About the Author

A good friend of mine once said (something to the effect of), “Everything I can’t say, I put quotes around.”

Which, after recognizing and deeply appreciating the irony, I found myself agreeing with fully.

Everything I can’t say, I (too) put quotes around. I make it rhyme. I put it in verse. Situations I don’t want to face, I place in a distant world of my own creation. True stories and instances I don’t want to be questioned about because I’m just not ready, I label Shorts. It’s not so much sweeping under the rug as it is… giving welfare to corporations and calling it a bailout. A rose by any other name would still… suck as much.

I’ve been avoiding writing, I’ve noticed. Which is funny because it’s what I do, right? It’s what I love. It’s on the top of the very short list of things I’m actually good at. It’s… God, it’s writing! And, as I’ve said before and still stick by, writing makes it real. Really, really real. Writing makes it possible for your deepest fears to stare you back in the face with every bit of brutal honesty 26 letters can carry. And that scares me.

But if I won’t face it, and I can’t write about it… I’m at a loss. A loss for words. A loss for action. I’m lost.

I pride myself on being able to blur the line between fact and fiction. And now, it is that very talent which is becoming my downfall. I can’t hide my thoughts and feelings behind my words, rhymes, verses, stanzas, or stories anymore.

It’s funny. When I was growing up, my grandmother and some of my older aunts had a saying for when someone was lying: “You’re storyin’.” Ah, the mystical wisdom of elders…

.:~o*’Kaylyn’*o~:.