The Old King

I’d long grown tired of the old king’s games

So I toppled his throne, and ended his reign

It was quite the sight, to see him fall

The giant who’d once stood a thousand feet tall

The Father of Nations, the Founder of Hope

Had been unveiled, a true misanthrope

Beloved in his prime, he now lay so low

But had I done the right thing? I still don’t know.

Should I, maybe, have left things, just as they were?

Peace only comes when rebels don’t stir

And the people did love him, truly, they did

And I might have, too, when I was still just a kid

But age brings anger in hot moral flames

And youths are impetuous, quick to cast blame

On those in authority, and with strength, we strike

Banishing dictators from democracy’s light

But is this the right thing? I know I can’t see

Just how this new freedom now will affect me

I’m too naïve to know, too deaf to hear

Too young to remember kings who erred yesteryear

Too exhausted to look up, too jaded to see ahead

And too blind to recognise a foe from a friend

confessions of an ex-teenager #972

at nights i wake up in cold sweats i

dreamt that i was trapped in high

school again and the bars came down

and the stakes were high and i was

locked away and that’s when i

cried but then i breathe deep because

bad as things are i’m not trapped there

any more. deep breaths. deep breaths.

they can’t hurt me any more.

Schizo

“No,” I muttered to Ghost. “The answer’s ‘A’. I’m sure of it.”

“Your funeral,” said Ghost.

“Miss Bryant, is there an issue?” Teacher called from the front of the room. “A test is a solo exercise.”

“Yessir,” I muttered.

“Sucker,” said Ghost.

“SHUT UP!” I snapped.

Heads turned in my direction.

“Sorry,” I muttered, looking back down again. Teacher didn’t say anything, but I heard him sigh. This was the fourth time I’d done this this month. Mama had warned me that if I acted out again, we were going to the doctor.

But Ghost was so annoying! He wouldn’t shut up!

“That’s mean,” Ghost whined. “I do too know when to be quiet!”

“No, you don’t!” I fumed. “There! Done! Finally!”

“…are you sure about that last question?”

“ARGH!”

“Miss Bryant.” Teacher’s voice was different this time. Time-to-go-to-the-office different.

“Stupid Ghost,” I muttered.

“…sorry?”

“SHUT UP!”

I swung my legs as I sat on the…what do they call these things? Doctor’s office beds? Stretchers? Ghost would probably know, but he was sulking, since I blamed him for getting kicked out of class.

The door swung open, and I jumped. “Emily Bryant?”

“That’s me,” I said.

“I’m Doctor O’Connor. I understand you’ve been having some trouble in school…?”

“She keeps yelling things and speaking to people who aren’t there,” Mama said. “The teachers say it’s as if she’s sharing test answers with someone. But I’ve heard her doing it when she’s in her room, alone.”

The doctor raised an eyebrow. “Is she on the phone?”

“No! You don’t think I thought about that? You think I want a crazy kid?”

Doctor O’Connor tutted. “Now, ma’am, we don’t like to use the word ‘crazy’ in the –”

“Well, that’s what she is! She spends all day cooped up in her room, speaking to God knows what. She doesn’t eat, she doesn’t sleep — you can see the bags under her eyes — she doesn’t play music, she doesn’t do anything except act out and whisper to the air!”

Doctor O’Connor flipped through his clipboard. “Is there a time when this behaviour started?”

“About a year ago, I’d say.”

“And did anything happen a year ago?”

“Well, my older daughter, Emily’s sister, died.”

Doctor O’Connor tutted again. “How?”

“Suicide. Hanging.”

“Mmm.” The clipboard was tossed onto the desk. “Ma’am, how about you let Emily and I have a little alone time?”

“NO!” said Ghost, making me jump. Both Mama and the doctor noticed.

“Can you hear something, Emily?” he asked, with the gentle tone of a predator luring in its dinner. “Is there someone else here in the room with us?”

“No,” I said, flatly.

“Oh, come on!” said Ghost. “I’m right here! You can tell them.”

“No, no I can’t.”

“Are you speaking to someone, Emily?” said the doctor.

“Me!” said Ghost.

“Shut up!” I said.

“EMILY!” said Mama. “You see, Doctor? You see what she does?”

They ended up putting me on several pills. ‘Depression’, they called it. ‘Psychomotor agitation’. ‘Hallucinations’. ‘Grief’.

Idiots.

I knew what they were doing. I knew what they were after. And, as annoying as Ghost was, I’d take him over a ride in the happy farm any day.

“What are you doing?” said Ghost, as I flushed the day’s supply of pills down the toilet. “I thought you were supposed to take those!”

“They’ll make you disappear,” I said, flatly. “And, as stupid as you are, I’d miss you if you disappeared.”

“Aw, shucks, I knew you cared about me!” Ghost said, giddily.

“Shut up.”

“Anyway, there’s someone who wants to meet you.”

“Hello, Miss Emily,” a new voice said. Stiff. Stuffy. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“He’s been begging for days,” said Ghost. “Hard guy to tell no.”

“He sounds so…stuffy,” I said.

“Stuffy? Hey, that’s excellent! Hey, Stuffy! Finally introduced you Em. Aren’t you going to say thank you?”

“I appreciate the gesture, sir,” Stuffy said formally. I could imagine him bowing.

“Anyhow, Em, you don’t need those pills, I guess, if you don’t want them. Stuffy and I will look out for you.”

I smiled, capping the pill bottle before returning it to the medicine cabinet. “I know. And thank you.”

confessions of an ex-teenager #129

when we had a boring class i would

take my notebook and write poems about

the teacher fighting a bunch of

gorillas or whatever caught my

fancy because we weren’t allowed

to doodle but the teachers thought i

was taking notes until one

day somebody checked my book but

i got off because they thought it was

a good poem and no one else in the

school could write like that.

confessions of an ex-teenager #768

matt wilson with the locker next

to mine would come to school with

brownies not the chocolate kind and

sell them from his locker 10 bucks

a piece and he’d go outside during

break and smoke a joint and dump his coat

that reeked of smoke and then my locker

would smell too and i always waited for the

day when i would go home and my mother

would flip because i smelled smoky even

though i never ever picked one up

honest to god but who would
believe me if i blamed someone with the name

matt wilson?

Won’t You Hate Me?

The way you love me isn’t right

A love of hatred, filled with fright

The way you creep, and fill my days

With hidden glances which never stay

I feel your presence like a curse

That makes me shake, and fear the worst

I don’t know who you think you are

But this love of ours will never go far

It’s not true love, it’s an obsessive thing

A misunderstanding, a high school fling

I’ve tried so hard to shake you off

But you won’t leave, and you won’t stop!

You only haunt and spy and smirk

Behind the corners where you lurk

There’s no escape, I’ll never be free

Of your obsession, this slavery

Though I move on, and you keep following me

In my heart, my mind, and everything I see

And though I’ll grow, and try to be strong

Everywhere I go, you’ll always come along

The Fall of a Queen

Her name was Patty Picard.
You know the type. Rich, popular, and pretty, with painted nails and pleated miniskirts. Teachers love her, boys worship her, girls cling to her slang and fashion fads.
She was my worst nightmare in wedge heels. Was I the only one who saw her for what she was? A pampered princess who had probably never cracked a toenail in her life. She never did homework. She copied answers from her coterie. She never wanted for anything. “Darling Daddy” and “Dearest Mummy” gave everything she asked for, from the sparkle-coated red mascara to the bejeweled purple pumps to a white, tea-cup-sized poodle she named “Mercedes”.
And, in gym class, Patty Picard didn’t sweat, even though she could run two miles in six minutes. Her body never soaked her share of the gym towels. She never even had to deign to wipe a rebel beat of sweat streaking down her face. No, the world knew it well: Patty Picard didn’t sweat. She glowed.
It was insufferable. Us normal girls (whom she dubbed “wallflowers”) roamed the corridors with bent heads and red faces, hiding in the shadows from the Princess and her privileged bodyguards. They prowled through the school, decimating any soul foolish enough to show her face without hiding behind cakes of powder, rouge, and lipstick.
It took me longer than you would think to decide I had finally had enough. But, strangely enough, the last straw wasn’t another stolen piece of homework or hallway humiliation.
In fact, it didn’t even involve me. Or shouldn’t have, directly.
But I have a horrid habit of sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. All in the name of Justice, of course.

Of course it began just like any other school day. Moments of interest cannot be heralded; otherwise, we would expect them, thus eliminating any element of surprise and, consequently, removing the interest.
I stood by my locker, feigning interest in a large ball of papers as Patty and Co. passed behind me. I felt something hit my back and knelt to retrieve it. Another paper missile to add to my collection. I was aiming for the ball to outgrow my locker by Christmas. I was, incidentally, well on track.
Muffled voices rose behind me, and I turned slightly, hiding my makeup-free face behind my locker door. Through the slits I could see Patty and two cronies towering over a smaller girl. Likely a freshman. Hair in two braids. Glasses. Braces. Freckles.
No match for Glitzy Red Mascara.
One of the cronies dropped Freckles’ glasses on the floor, crushing them beneath her feet. The girl whimpered, and I winced. Didn’t she know better? I had bought my first pair of contacts two days into high school.
Patty’s hyena cackle echoed through the hallway, and I squinted through the locker slits. Freckles had fallen on the ground.
And she was looking straight at me.
My breath caught in my throat. The girl’s eyes were supplicant. She was begging me to intervene.
But what could I do? It would be an uneven three against two. Freckles hardly looked as though she could manage a solid right hook. And Patty had prestige, money, and razor-sharp stilettos.
But I had my lacrosse stick.
Gently pulling it from the back of my locker, I fingered the net gently before stepping into the open field. Patty’s back was towards me, but Freckles sent me a small smile.
I nodded in acknowledgement before throwing the net over Princess Patty’s head.
“What the HELL!”
“RUN!” I called to Freckles as Patty struggled underneath the net. I gained no small satisfaction as I noted the disarray of her once-perfectly permed hair. “AND FIND HELP!” I added to Freckles as she disappeared around the corner.
Patty’s cronies looked shocked at my display before breaking into raucous laughter.
“Serves her right!”
“How pathetic!”
I saw Patty’s kohl-lined eyes fill with tears as she stopped struggling to untangle her hair from the net. “W-What?”
“Girl, it’s about time.”
“Word!”
“W-What do you mean?” Patty’s voice was more vulnerable than I had ever heard it.
“No one cares about you, Picard.”
“As if!”
“You think you have the school under your thumb, but everyone’s just too afraid to…”
“OMG! Is that…Patty Picard?”
“Who did that?”
“This is EPIC!”
“This is SO going on MySpace.”
“Lemme see that camera, girl.”
“Ooh! Ooh! I wanna turn!”
I stole a glance around me. A crowd had gathered to witness the fall of a queen. Turning back to my captive, I saw Patty Picard’s eyes glaring into mine. Her gaze was vehement, murderous. But all great empires fall. No one can last forever.
Not even Patty Picard.

The Five Heroes You Meet

My final history assignment wasn’t about daring battles or secret marriages or long expeditions. It was about finding everyday heroes in the world around us. Five of them, to be precise. Being the procrastinator I am, I waited until lunchtime the day before the assignment was due to read the prompt. Now, as I head to my after-school job at the local corner store, a series of thoughts fly single-file through my head. Perhaps I’ll meet my hero tonight. At least one of them, anyway. He’ll come up to my register and sweep me off my feet. Yes, that would be lovely, wouldn’t it? I need a hero in my life; I haven’t even got a prom date. Everyone was sure Orson Collins would ask me, but he asked that stupid Cindy Lewis instead. Now I’ll be stuck as a wallflower unless I can find somebody. Fast. There’s only one week left before prom.

As soon as I switch on my overhead light (#4), a man runs in front of my register. He wears an old, faded denim jacket over a gray track suit. In his hands rest a bag of nappies and a box of baby wipes, with a bottle of Destin precariously balanced on top.
“Find everything you need, Sir?” I ask as I begin to scan the items.
The man grunts in response as he pulled out his iPhone, which had just started to ring. I grin, taking in his dopey, unkempt appearance. His hair is matted, as if he had run through the pouring rain to reach the store, and his shoes are stained with mud and grass.
It isn’t until I take his credit card that I recognise his name. Reverend Lance Johnston. Pastor at the Methodist church two streets away from my school. His wife had given birth to a baby with severe spina bifida three months ago. A small, sickly thing they called Lucy. The doctors said it wouldn’t survive the year.
But that hadn’t stopped the principal from milking the student body for every cent we had last Friday in exchange for some rubbish lollipops.
And that hadn’t stopped Reverend Johnston from running out in the rain late one Thursday afternoon for emergency baby supplies.

My next customer is a teenage girl, a little younger than myself. She places a large bouquet of pink roses on the counter. It is a simple scan-and-bag…at least, so I think until I hear a small voice emerge from behind the counter. “Um, Lizzy? Can I have a Mars Bar?”
The girl frowns. “Dad said no snacks before dinner.”
“But…”
“No.”
“It’s…”
“I said no, Zach!”
The boy pouts, and the girl softens. Slightly. “Zach, I’m sorry, but Dad told us to just buy the flowers because we have to…”
“But the flowers are from you, Liz! I want to give Mommy something, too.”
The girl scowls. “You can’t give her candy, idiot. She can’t eat it.”
“But we could leave it for her.”
The girl rolls her eyes, her attitude masking something deeper. “Fine, whatever.” She reaches in her pocket for the extra money.
“Oh, uh…Zach?”
“Lizzy?”
“I’m short fifty cents.”
Tears begin to form in the little boy’s eyes. “But, Lizzy! I have to give Mommy something. She’s my mommy!”
“She won’t even know you gave it to her, you know…” The boy’s sobs begin to pierce the quiet bustle of the store, and customers turn around. The girl freezes momentarily, then reaches for the bouquet of flowers.
“Miss?” she says, addressing me. “Do you mind if I swap this for something else really quick?”
The girl returns moments later with a smaller bouquet of baby’s breath and a little plastic sign which says: “In loving memory”. She places the items next to the chocolate bar, and says, “I think I should have enough money, now.”

Several customers later, a rather obese man waddles towards the counter, tossing a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts next to the register.
“Just this?” I ask. My manners are disappearing with my energy. I need a Red Bull.
“Uh-huh. Oh, and maybe add this, too, darlin’…” The man tosses two Butterfingers and a Babe Ruth next to the doughnuts.
It takes all of my concentration to keep from smirking.
“Total’s twelve-eight-five, mister.”
The man pulls out a wallet and gasps slightly.
“Everything okay, mister?”
The man totters to the side, clutching his chest. His lips are slightly blue.
My heart skips a beat.
“Mister!” I say, my voice rising. I walk around the counter. My feet are wobbly. What do I do?
“Mister, can you hear me?”
The man kneels on the floor, gasping for breath. His face is shiny, and his shirt is wet.
I look around the store. No one in sight.
The man groans.
“Help! HELP!” I scream. “Someone, we need a doctor!”
A young woman appears from inside one of the aisles. She has a light jacket thrown over dark blue scrubs. She is a nursing student from the CC.
The nurse sees the man on his knees, and me hovering around the counter, unsure what to do.
“Call nine-one-one,” she tells me, kneeling next to the man. I use the phone by the register.
“Sir, I need you to calm down, okay?” says the woman. “Just sit back here, yes, just like that. Tilt your head back. Good. I’m just going to loosen your shirt and belt. Nothing to worry about, okay? We’ll get you some help.”
The woman is much calmer than I am, I realise, as I squeal at the emergency dispatcher on the other end of the phone.
“He’s having a heart attack! Oh, god, what do we do? What do we do?”
The paramedics are dispatched, and I watch the woman speak soothingly to the man. I feel useless. Numb.
“Do you have any aspirin?” the woman asks me a few minutes later. I nod.
“Can you get it for me?” Her tone is still calm. Collected. For a moment, I am jealous of her poise. I wish I had nerves like that.
The nurse asks the man to chew and swallow the aspirin. Moments later, the store doors open, and two paramedics rush in with a stretcher. I see my manager standing behind them. The paramedics place the man on the stretcher. The nurse says something to me, but I don’t hear her.
I only see my manager several feet away. He gives me two thumbs up.
But I wasn’t the hero, here.

Two hours before my shift ends, the effects of the Red Bull kick in. My smile is brighter, my head is foggy, and I wonder how late I’ll have to stay up to write this essay. Two hours, three, maybe, if there’s an interesting discussion on Facebook. My best friend Katelyn has been having problems with her boyfriend. He’s really cute. I wonder if they’ve broken up as yet.
There is a lull in the flow of customers, and I inspect my nails. I still have to pick out my prom dress. I’ve narrowed it down to a yellow tulle and a purple satin; I’m going back to the shop tomorrow to try them on one last time. Cindy Lewis is wearing silver and blue, but I don’t know what fabric. Not that it matters. Everything she wears looks like spun gold.
“‘ello, poppet, ‘ow are you today?”
A little old lady stands in front of me, clutching a box of Earl Gray teabags and a box of cookies.
The automatic smile returns. “I’m very well, thank you, ma’am. Did you find everything okay?”
“Yes, thank ‘ee, dearie.”
“Just these, then?” Tea and biscuits. Typical old lady.
“Just these, dearie.”
I begin to place the items in a bag, but the lady stops me.
“Love, you can just put them right there. They’re for your food drive.”
Food drive? I follow the lady’s finger to see the barrel of dry goods by the door. HOLY TRINITY FOOD COLLECTION.
“Oh…that food drive…”
The lady smiles. “Nothing like a spot of tea and a nice biscuit on a chilly night, is there, love?”
“No, I suppose not…”
The lady follows me as I walked towards the barrel. I suppose she thinks her donation had bought her five minutes’ worth of my ears. “It’s uncanny…I had a daughter who ran away from home, once. We had a huge argument. Something silly that I can’t remember, now. She spent three weeks living in a shelter and eating from a food bank. Ever since that time, I always try to give back, give to someone else’s daughter, even if that means I don’t get my cuppa every night. Sometimes all it takes is a good deed to warm the heart. Right, poppet?”

My final customer for the night is Orson Collins. My heart stops when I see him standing in front of my register. Even though he’s technically with Cindy Lewis, the girls still swoon every time he walks by. Myself included.
Stupid heart.
He has no boxes or parcels in his hands, though, and I raise an eyebrow.
“Something I can help you with…sir?”
“My car…it just broke down…I don’t…the garage isn’t open…I can’t…” He jumps and stares at me, as if seeing my face for the first time. “Grace? Is that you?”
I sigh. “Yep, it’s me, Orson.”
“Grace, you gotta help me. My mom’s gonna kill me if I don’t get home before nine.”
“Did you try calling her?”
“Busy signal…”
“Try again.”
“I’ve been trying for the last hour. I think someone forgot to hang up the phone.”
I sigh. “Where’s your car?”
“I managed to push it into your parking lot, but I don’t think it’s going any further. I’d walk, but it’s all the way across town. And it’s raining.”
“Well, I get off at ten. I could give you a lift…”
“I have to get home for nine.”
I rolled my eyes. He didn’t have to try so hard to be annoying. “Call a cab.”
“No money. You know they require cash on sight. Especially from teens.”
“Orson, I’m sure your parents will understand if you…”
“No, Grace, you don’t understand. We’re having a wake for my Gran. I have to be there at nine. Mom’s been alone since this morning. She’d be exhausted. But she can’t go to bed unless someone else is there to keep watch.”
I sigh again. This one is much longer. Then I reach over, and flick my lights. The manager runs over.
“I just need a sec,” I say, abandoning my register and grabbing Orson by the arm. I take him to the back room, pull my purse out of my locker, and pass him my phone and a fifty-dollar bill.
“Call a cab.”

The next day, I hand in a half-completed history assignment. Mr Sterling raises an eyebrow after flipping through the paper, but he doesn’t say anything. I have no energy, no motivation to do anything. Last night, I gave Orson Collins over half of the money I’ve saved for a prom dress. My family isn’t rich. I’ve been saving for over three months. I know I’ll never be able to afford a dress now. I probably won’t even end up going to the stupid dance.

Two days before prom, Orson Collins arrives back in school. He is carrying a large parcel with him. There is much speculation. Some say it’s for an elaborate proposal for Cindy Lewis. Others say it’s a mini Ferrari.
It isn’t until lunchtime that Orson pulls me over and thrusts the package in my hands.
“I heard through the grapevine,” he said. “And don’t worry about the history assignment. I’ve already told Mr Sterling about my everyday heroes.”
Puzzled, I tear off the paper wrapping. Inside is a silk, floor-length, green-and-gold gown.