“Learn to light a candle in the darkest moments of someone’s life. Be the light that helps others see; it is what gives life its deepest significance.” – Roy T. Bennet

Archive for November, 2010

Life Can Be Interesting At Times…

Life here can be interesting at times. Especially with all these bugs everywhere. First cockroaches, then tarantulas, now . . . lice. Yep, you read me, lice.
Someone went and made a passing comment about these beastly insects, and then I remembered that my head had been itching quite painfully in the past few days. So I said, half joking, “I think I have lice.”
My mom freaked out, searched my head, and it really didn’t take long to find a patch of eggs. And another patch, and another patch, and . . . another patch.
She hates lice, with a passion. She says they are dirty, ugly, and annoying. Sure, my stomach turns when I think of things crawling around in my hair, dropping onto my clothes, my bed, even the chairs I sit on, but, hey, they’re just bugs that reproduce on your head and feed off your blood.
Anyway, my dad drove to the store and found some lice shampoo, a fine-toothed comb, and rubbing alcohol. My mother and I washed my hair very, very well, and stuck my head in a plastic bag to suffocate me. Whoops, I meant the lice.
When I finally dried my hair with a towel, I noticed these dark things all over it. It was a whole bunch of dead lice, stuck to the fibers in the towel. Nasty, but at least we knew the shampoo worked.
And then came the nit-picking. I read online somewhere that the average louse lays 50-150 eggs in its lifetime! Or something along that line. My mom had her hands full, looking through my head for these miniscule ovals that are the same color of my hair. Hours upon hours, we stayed up until two in the morning that first night.
And then I stuck the rubbing alcohol in my head, put on another plastic bag, and dreamt some extremely troubling dreams that had nothing whatsoever to do with lice.
But after repeating all that for a few days (well not all, since that really wouldn’t make much sense), I am happy to announce that, here I am, bug-free, nit-free, and only slightly scarred from the whole experience. Also, I will be keeping my hair up from now on.

Phil

Once upon a time, a baby boy was born. Now, baby boys are born often enough, but this one was special. Well, he wasn’t really, not yet, that is.

This little boy grew up. When he turned fifteen he ran away, like many other nice boys his age. He was caught and sent home as he was jumping the neighbor’s fence. Punished, as usual. Then he turned thirty.

Whoa, whoa, just, whoa there. He didn’t go from fifteen to thirty. What I meant was, he grew up even more, and became a man. The years in between have little mattering to the story.

Well, Phil, ’cause that was his name, was a little plain. His nose was all bony, and his eyebrows were all bushy, and his ears stuck way out from his head. When he was thirteen, he’d wanted to join the army, and had gotten a buzz-cut. Yeah, he still had it. Girls just didn’t much like the sight of him.

So thirty, single, and not enjoying it, Phil began to wonder what was wrong. He figured it was because he didn’t have a beard, cause he was unable to grow one. He went to the store, and bought a Gandalf costume, and used the fake beard that came with it. Unfortunately, it made him look ridiculous, and he quickly dumped it.

Saddened by the fact that no girl would look his way, and that no matter what he did it just wouldn’t help, Phil gave up and decided to live out his life long dream to become a rockstar. Thankfully, he was turned down before he even got to knock.

And then he found Brittany, the perfect girl for him. She was only slightly less homely, with long hair and an honest face. When Phil walked up to her, his heart was pounding like a jackhammer. Could she be the one? Would his endless searching finally end? He was afraid to find out. But he spoke to her.

“H-h-hello,” he said.

My friends, Brittany took one look at him and spit in his face. Then she took off running. Too late, Phil realized he’d had a sudden case of bad acne, probably from sweating so much, and all his richest hopes were crushed, except one.

Brittany’s dog had liked Phil more than his owner did. When Brittany ran, Phil gained a friend. His first ever. His name was Edward.

Okay, maybe I lied about Phil being special. I met him once, he ran me off the yard with a shotgun.

 

 

© 2011 singinthebreeze.wordpress.com

Ode to Chocolate

Fudge tastes good
Deliciously filling
Maybe white or dark
It can be; if you’re willing
Chocolatey goodness
In every bite
A scrumptious pudding
Your heart’s delight
A beautiful square
Perfection at last
Companions; beware
It disappears too fast

 

 

© 2011 singinthebreeze.wordpress.com

Out

Crack! The break of the bat

Give wind to the hurtling ball

The pounding of feet

The spinning object unseen to all

A shout comes, a shout

Yes! A flailing arm reaches

The crowd roaring with joy

The ball snug; at last it beaches

 

 

© 2011 singinthebreeze.wordpress.com

America

This is the story of the naming of America. Not many people know the true story, and those who do keep it from reaching the wrong ears. I beg of you to consider the safety and welfare of America and her surrounding countries, and not tell the story around terrorists and/or the president.

I will begin by explaining what the word America means. It can be broken up into three parts. The first is A. Of course, we all know what that means. A. As in A Lobster. Or A Hairball. Though neither of those have anything to do with our story. The second is Mer, meaning Soil, or Land. The last part is Rica, the Spanish word for Rich. This form of the word is feminine, which is why I referred to America as a her. The full meaning of the word is A Rich Land. Obviously, she speaks for herself.

The real name-giver of the land was not Amerigo Vespucci, or the mapmaker from Germany, or even that elusive Piero Soderini who received a few letters. No, it goes back so much farther than that.

On a certain stormy night (of course it’s stormy, it’s always stormy in the interesting stories), an old crippled priest walked up the steps of his crumbling church. I don’t know why, he just did, because it’s interesting, in a way. The priest’s name was Aldo. He had had a vision.

Now, back then, visions were always to be taken seriously. If a man had a vision that his cow would die from the chickenpox, he would kill it in order for it to not suffer. Aldo knew that this vision was more important than a cow or any other sort of animal, and that it could change the world. He had seen a new land being formed, a land meant for all kinds and races. It puzzled him, to see Spaniards working alongside the Dutch and the English. Aldo then decided to see for himself if this land was real. Despite his neighbors’ protests that such a land existed, he set sail to reach the ends of the earth.

Then, tragedy struck. Having not thought to bring along a crew, Aldo was quickly outnumbered by the various ropes and nets that hung about the ship. He was swept overboard in a tug-o-war with the mainsail, and lost beneath the waves. For a time.

Some say it was mermaids, or dolphins. Whatever the truth, all we know is that he made it safely to shore, and, seeing the wondrous land before him, he exclaimed, “Oh, see the beautiful plants! How rich the soil must be for the trees to bear such fruit!”

The name came to him then and there. Knowing in the deep depths of his failing heart that this was the very place his vision spoke of, he used words from different languages and combined them, saying, “It is fitting for the country of many to have a name from many countries.”

So he called it America. And  it was a land that was meant to be discovered many times over before it was finally inhabited by “civilized” people. America it was named, and America it shall stay. Thank you, Aldo.

 

 

© 2011 singinthebreeze.wordpress.com

Demon-Possessed

Oh, bittersweet breath

Oh, burning hands of disease

The flames inside no less

The torturous rattling of thickened seas

They weep, no cloth to staunch the bleeding

Inside those which are brittle; they reel

None keeping the many from seeing

The man with the devil at his heel

 

 

© 2011 singinthebreeze.wordpress.com

A Pen

A plastic stick

Or else a metal line

A wet substance

Or else a trail of design

The liquid color

Pouring out of object keen

Drawing the picture

Of hill so vainly green

When done

Piece of paper palmed

Happily used

The cap securely donned

 

 

© 2011 singinthebreeze.wordpress.com

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