Erin Gartner
Why can't I lure the voices around me into a cage filled with life sucking monsters? Why can't they stop talking? Why can't I have one moment of peace and solitary? What would happen if I took away their voices?
The last encounter is always more memorable than the first.
I just finished writing a paper relating to my family, so no more. I'm done. Goodbye.
Erin Gardener. That's what she said as she went down the list of the twenty plus students. Gardener. A teacher, one that I presume obtained a teacher degree, pronounced my last name, Gartner, Gardener. I am not an employee of Mother Earth. I do not tend to the weeds that run-a-muck in the old lady's flower patch. I do not have brown, dirt colored stains pressed on my black pants. I am not a Gardener.
What value do you hold? Are you the off brand value, or do you possess true, deep, strong importance? Do the words and actions that complete you equal the type of value, that someone is willing to pay the full amount for, or do your lack of words and actions express the cheap, discounted value? Is your presence know? Is your presence wanted? Don't be the great value water, be the Figi water you know you can be.
The antique, rickety bench, was all that stood between my and my fate. A wood smelling piece of furniture, that housed the very people that would decide my fate. The smack, that resembled a light beam striking earth, followed the words I dreaded to hear. I was free, according to the council. But I knew I would never be free.
The mouse climbed down the chimney string in hand. As the air pushed upwards against his feet, his delicate whiskers began to shrivel, curling at the ends. The dark tattered piece of cloth that he found in the gutter, flapped back and forth like a flag on a windy day. As the clever, white mouse reached the bottom, he plopped his feet out and landed like a gymnast, plunk. The long string that stretched from atop the building to the floor on which he now stood, was now occupied by the same clever, white, but smaller mice. This was their only chance.
As I typed these words, my head began to pound with a monster headache.
Armor. My armor is neither shiny nor strong. It is not bulky nor clunky. It does not require a shining every time it is worn. If placed upon my chest during a duel, a new, red spot would appear. My armor does not protect in the sense of physicality, no. My armor is black and fuzzy. It lays horizontally across my body, covering every inch from my head to my toes. When it's wrapped around me, time stops. It protects me mentally. It shields my mind from the stress of the "outside world." And it was only $60 dollars.
I sat there in the car, my eyes trying to find something else to focus on. Please give me something else, for right next to me sat the very child that I did not want to see. The very child that seven years ago, I watched come out of the hospital with a bright pink balloon.The very child that was to sit with me in the car for the next three hours. At one point in the six years that she started to communicate actual words, she decided that just asking one question wasn't enough. She decided that stating one fact wasn't enough. I had also decided that the best way to respond to her 24/7 conversations, was a simple and vague response. "...and you can make portals that take you to the nether." "Oh, really, wow." Did I have any idea what she was talking about, no. But she thought I did, and honestly that's the only thing that mattered.
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