Sorella I sat on the porch as I’d done in my youth, though this time, I was all alone. Everyone I knew was dead to the world. It’s a sobering thought. Papa had died when I was still seventeen, and fratello still lay in his bed, unable to return to the world of the living. He wasn't there when Papa was buried, and he didn't accompany me when I went to clean Mama and Papa’s headstones, though Signore Venicia has assured me time and time again that he was alive and well. Just ‘sleeping’.
He’d been sleeping for years now. Six years, four months, and twenty-two days to be exact. I’d counted. It was now only I who supported the two of us, making money by patching and making dresses and overalls and just about anything else the people in town required to keep themselves clothed; though, I never even venture out to town anymore. Little Domenico brought me pieces to work on, took them back to the person they belon
Fratello He sat on the porch every day. Mio fratello. I wish I still had the chance to sit beside him, doing nothing more than watching the trees sway in the wind. I would kill to be able to relax with him again. Just one. More. Time. I was so stupid back then, thinking I was the smartest person in the world, that I could never do a wrong.
He was born when I was four. He was so tiny; I remember my Mama smiling down at him as she held him in her arms, him trying to grab my Papa and I with his chubby little hands. I remember holding my finger out to him, smiling in absolute delight when he grasped it tightly.
It was years later when we found out something was wrong with his vocal chords. Mama used to sit with him on the couch, trying to get him to repeat what she was saying. He’d open his mouth as if he was trying to say something, mouthed the word, but he never made a sound. We started getting discouraged when he was four and still hadn't sa
The Geist and I She follows me. I swear, I'm not crazy, this is really happening. I don't know her name; really, I'm starting to think she's more of an 'it' than a 'she', but for now, let's just say it's a she.
I see her everywhere; at school, at the park; in my home. She hasn't really done anything to me, but knowing that there's someone I don't know living in my house with me is sort of creepy. If I'm going to be honest, she's actually very kind; I've taken to just calling her Geist. You know, German for ghost, ha ha, very clever.
Sometimes she'll even act as a friend. She'll sit there and listen to me when I'm sick and alone at home and have nobody to talk to, occasionally nodding her somewhat-transparent blonde head; but she never speaks. I don't know if she can't, or if she just doesn't want to, but whatever it is, she is forever silent.
I still remember the first time I saw her. It was in my home. I sat there, adorable six-year-old me, play
Running. Never hiding, just running. That's all she'd ever known. Running from those who have hurt her, those who want to hurt her, too afraid to stop for those who cared for her. She ran, from people and problems, only pushing further when she felt her calves burn; and it became her. She became known as the Bird, sprinting so fast that people swore they saw her fly.
She felt like a bird; above all her problems, wind rushing past her as she soared through the air. But she wasn't a bird. When she slowed down, she knew this; and because of that, she ran faster, further from reality.
She ran from people who had abused her for years beforehand; teasing her because of her small size and big dreams, the heart so big it nearly popped out of her petite body. From the parents who didn't care for her and left her rotting in an orphanage full of big people with small hearts. Big people who looked down at her, squishing her beneath their shoes l
Made To HateI'm not sure when I'll understand-
If I'll understand-
Why you all hate me so.
Well, maybe I do.
Yes, I realize I'm not very nice
And I come off as rude whenever they try to communicate.
I swear it's not on purpose;
It's just a knee-jerk reaction,
A way of protecting myself.
I've been burned so many times in the past
That I'm afraid that
The flames of betrayal will lick my skin once again.
But by far, that's no reason to hate me.
It might be grounds to ignore or avoid me;
But certainly not hate me.
I'm not the only person like this.
The Japanese have even invented a word for it-
Someone who acts tough on the outside, cold, uncaring;
But someone who grows to care and defend those she cares about,
Even if it would be at the cost of her own life.
Yes, I'm like this;
I'll be rude and crude and over-all mean to strangers
But I'd give anything to protect my friends.
Not many people can see past my shell.
They just think I'm someone to hate.
Blood is shed,
As the bullets fly through the air
And the deafening sound of guns rings out.
This isn't how it
Used to be.
It used to be a test of strength,
Not of your ability with a machine.
Swords would clash
And arrows would be shot,
Piercing every once in a while
But missing just as much.
Now, it's just tech.
No real skill, just
Brave men and woman
Risking their lives just to pull a trigger.
Sometimes, they'll switch it up.
Instead of just a gun,
They'll drop a bomb
Or fly a plane.
Someone is going to die;
Whether it be an 'enemy' or an 'ally'
Depends only on where your blood originates from.
Truthfully, I like the old way better.
I think it'd be more fair
If winning had to do with
Who's stronger, not who can press a button.
But as times change
And technology grows like a newborn child,
The ways of old are lost
And with them, honesty.