Category Archives: Personal Narrative

proud of me

Today my mother told me she is

proud of me

because the police report said I was

polite and cooperative

she said she knows how hard

it can be sometimes

-dpd

I Believe

The first thing we noticed when we walked in was that it looked… old. Maybe old isn’t the right word. Out-dated isn’t right, either, because it was almost certainly done on purpose. It was antique. Antiquated. The carpet was thick, and the chairs had claw feet. Upholstered furniture with the type of golden-threaded patterns you would expect in Buckinham Palace. The artwork and the wall-paper didn’t help much either. That deep crimson laced with flashing gold. Old money. This place had been around. Kept up, too though. It was clean, well-lighted. Outside the window you could hear the indefatiguable sounds of the river rushing relentlessly to it’s massive drop. Niagra. All in all, it was beautiful. And we had finally made it.

The road trip began in Burlington, Vermont. By lunch time I had picked up my travelling companion in Massachusetts, and continued on to Pittsburg. Nightfall would see us cruising into Columbus, Ohio. Onward from our short stop in Ohio, we reached Chicago. Beautiful stay. Beautiful city. Two days later we had cruised back through Cleveland, the mistake by the lake, and were working our way up the lakes towards Canada, and our final stop on our semi-cross country trek.

The inn was well-known enough, by the standards of the town. Not cheap, but also not the most posh place around. There were spider webs in alarming numbers all down the wrought iron front fence, that separated the inn and it’s slightly over-grown landscaping from the promenade of pedestrian tourists.

I made no further thought of the spiders and was content to enjoy the last days of my journey with my sweet companion, in relaxation and good spirits. We made quick work of checking in, and I happened to find an old and battered copy of Stephen King’s Pet Sematary in the small library that doubled as the general waiting area for the inn. I dropped the book in my bag, after reading the first chapter, and walked from the waiting room to our suite.

It wasn’t long before we started to discuss the slightly creepy feelings that the room brought out in us. It definitely had the feeling of a room that has been through a lot. You could tell that it was old, and you could tell that you weren’t the first to have sat on those old divans. But the sound of the rushing water and the road-weariness that dragged on us were pleasant lulls.

As we sat listening to the water go by, we snapped a few pictures in the room. Us sitting bolt upright in the old armchairs, hands folded on our laps, poking fun at the decidedly stiff motif of our room. All we needed was a platoon of fox terriers around our feet, and the picture would have been complete.

After a bit of similar horsing around, we decided to take a short rest before getting ready for dinner. Lounging on the couch we both subtly turned our heads toward the door to the bedroom, and the bathroom inside there. It was clearly nothing. Just a rattling of pipes, or a breeze. But it certainly sounded like the door of the closet coming unlatched and opening into the bedroom. We couldn’t remember having closed it, particularly, but after furrowing our brows and staring into each others’ eyes for a short interlude, I got up to see what might have made the sound.

Well, the closet door was definitely open now. But maybe it was open before. Or maybe it just wasn’t closed all the way, the spring action in the door handle had been pressing the dead-latch against the frame. Eventually it built up enough pressure to push the door all the way open. Right?

In any case, the door should probably be shut. I shut it. Firmly.

By this time, we are pretty much done with the possibility of taking a nap. And I am pretty wary of picking up a Stephen King book when this room is clearly putting myself and my lady friend in such an agitated state. I decided to try some TV.

My companion headed to the bathroom for a shower, and I decided to turn the TV off and try to get a bit more shut-eye. I put the remote on the coffee table– one of the more modern-looking pieces of furniture in the room. It was glass-topped with a wooden frame around the outside edge, about an eighth of an inch tall. I remember being pleased that a pen would never roll off of it.

I remember looking out the window and wishing that I could open it all the way. Instead, I closed the small opening, to muffle the sound of the water. Minutes later, I am finally relaxing on my bed, with a wary eye still cast towards the closet door, to my left.

After a few minutes of listening to the shower run, I feel the same breathless sensation as when I heard the closet door open before. But this time, a noise had come from the other room, where I had just been minutes before. I sit bolt-upright, and think. I closed the window. The door is locked. Nothing should be making any noise. Especially not a sudden sound like that. It sounded like something had fallen or been knocked into something else. Something had fallen onto the carpeted floor.

Before my friend got out of the shower I went to investigate. A couple of deep breaths and glances around the room and I see what’s different. The remote. The same one I had just put down a few minutes before, is no longer on the coffee table, but on the floor a foot away.

At this point, I am down-right agitated. My neck hairs are standing on end, and I am starting to sweat. I’m not exactly a skeptic, I believe that there is a lot out there that we humans haven’t figured out yet. But I also wasn’t ready to brand myself as a “believer.” To this day, I have not been able to come up with a satisfactory explanation as to how a half pound TV remote could move itself a foot, lifting itself over the lip on the edge of the table, and clatter down on the floor, in an empty room.

When my lady friend emerged from the bathroom, she found me looking distraught, sitting on the couch. I told her what had just transpired, and she couldn’t help but believe what I told her.

She walked back into the bedroom, to get ready for dinner. She cleaned up quickly and was cautiously pawing her way around the rooms, waiting for me, when I heard something I didn’t expect from behind me.

“Oh my god!. You aren’t going to believe this. Well. You probably will.”

“What?”

“Did you see that there’s a guest book in the drawer of the beside table?”

I hadn’t.

“Well it’s pretty cool, and I was looking through it to try to get some ideas for restaurants or whatever. Well. Here. Just read this one.”

“Beautiful room. Lovely view. We had a great time. But, this room IS haunted. Not in a bad way though. It’s just a nice old woman, we think.”

“This is too f***ing weird,” I said, taking the book from her. “If one person wrote about it, there has got to be at least one other person in here.”

The majority of the notes left were very run-of-the-mill. Great view, great staff, perfect honeymoon, anniversary, etc. Except for two others.

One of them read something like this:

This room is really creepy. We like it here, but it is definitely haunted. Things moved around when we weren’t in the room. And something woke my husband (a very heavy sleeper) up in the middle of the night.”

And then there was the last one, from a mere three weeks prior:

What a great place! It IS haunted though. My husband woke me up in the middle of the night to point out the old woman in an old fashioned white night gown who was standing just to the left of our bed. She seemed kind. She smiled and looked at us for a moment, like she was just checking on us, and then disappeared towards the closet.”

-dpd

true story

Into the Sunrise

If you ask anyone around me

I am that girl,

The goody-two-shoes

Perfect down to every curl.

I’ve never broken curfew

Never done anything I should not,

I act how I’m supposed to

I even monitor my thought.

I’ve been called a teacher’s pet

And I guess I sort of am,

I answer every question

And ace every single exam.

However every so often

I get tired of the expectation,

The constant knowing looks

The adult’s admiration.

It is times like this

When the only thing to do,

Is to let it all go

And run in the dew.

To run like wind

And let the stress fly away,

To feel the burden lighten

And to keep the pressure at bay.

Heading into the sunrise

Into the early morning mist,

Is the best feeling ever

You must try it, I insist.

by lindsey.s

http://youngwritersproject.org/node/81367

Thought…

People will surprise you. About half the time, you’ll be glad they did.

Therapy

by ForgetMeNotMyWords

The invisible hands of the old man clock ticked away,

As she twisted a thick gold band around white knobby fingers,

Her radioactive green eyes trying to pry into the abyss,

Of my mind,

She purses her lips,

Disgruntled,

Trying to interpret the vacancy of my face,

Still and patient,

I wait for her calculated observation,

Thick white paper crinkles beneath her yellow stained finger nails,

The lamp set off an eerie glow in the room,

Her ratty brown hair hung loosely above her shoulders,

My legs impatiently twitch beneath me,

“You’re depressed…You are too stressed out”

She finally says in an unexpectedly calm voice,

I can’t hear her,

For dissociation has already taken me far away,

She waits for my response,

An hour almost gone,

My vision finally starts to return,

My brains way of saying “fuck you” to her,

The invisible hands strike 2:45,

I stand to leave,

Hands wrist deep in my pockets,

The paper of her skin tightens across her face,

An hour wasted,

I shuffle towards the door,

Wondering once again why I’m even here,

As I turn the silver lock to make my leave.

Cyclical

Every night
When the moon replaces the sun
I’m haunted by sharp things
That speak to me, begging me to carve in to
Not only my arms, but in to
Everything I’ve ever known to be real.

And every day
When the sun replaces the moon
I’m haunted by regret
That stabs in to me, begging me to put a stop to
Not only to what I do to myself, but to
The way I reject reality to feed my addiction.

by imperfect

One of the best socially conscious pieces of poetry I’ve seen recently.

Good Night

From 7th grade YoungWritersProject contributor Juliar

Good Night

I press my face against the chilly glass

Time goes by so fast

I just want to freeze my brain

My face leaving a stain

An imprint on the door

Staring at it thinking there’s so much more

My slim body fit to perfection

My hollow eye’s

Filled with empty cries

My Knotty hair

Dull and bare

Judging myself

Is making me tired

So good night

Sleep tight.

Your Last Goodbye

(One of the most popular pieces on ywp.org recently)

 

Your Last Goodbye

by flaming tears

 

I turned my head to the sun.

I let my skin absorb the sweet sunlight.

I let my eyes behold its beauty.

You were a star on your stage,

little sun.

And I’m that guy who came to every show.

You danced and sang,

you laughed and joked.

You were special,

you were real.

And darling,

real is a dying art.

You taught me what I could never forget,

You’re the reason why I am who I am today.

The reason why I have the crazy jumble of awesome in my mind is not me,

it was never me,

it was your beautiful heart that made mine grow.

I reached out for the sunlight you radiated,

the life you taught me,

I held onto them

as they became more important to me than you will ever know.

But somewhere along the line I took too much sunlight,

I took your lesons and smeared the name of them into the sewers,

somewhere along the line I became a chore for you.

Somewhere along the line talking to me became a pain.

And all I can do for you is say that I’m sorry in a poem that you’ll never read.

All I can do is cry tears that you’ll never know were cried.

Somewhere along the line

somewhere between the jokes and the insanity,

you left.

You knew that you had wanted to leave,

and were just working up the courage to do it.

Working up the courage to finally tell me,

“goodbye.

You’re a nice guy.

And I used to enjoy talking to you.

But somewhere along the lines talking to you began to worry me,

the pressure of it was just to great.

So this is my goodbye,

from all of me,

and if our paths shall cross again in the future,

I shall not be displeased.”

And now I’m here looking at the empty stage,

the lesson on how something doesn’t need to be real to be real

(it really only makes sense when you teach it, darling).

Now I’m here swearing at myself for being so damn clingy,

for not giving your enough air to breathe,

for causing you stress.

And now I’m sitting here,

staring at the empty stage,

and wondering what more there was.

What you said made it seem

like maybe you weren’t as fine as I’d like to believe.

You haven’t been on a stage in a while,

though I think that you’ll come back.

You,

darling,

were meant for the stage.

But maybe you didn’t think that you were worthy,

maybe you hung up your crazy mind and put it to rest.

Maybe life was too much,

maybe a bullet solved everything.

Maybe your body is at the lowest part of the ocean right now,

and if it is,

darling I hope you’re smiling.

Frowns are not becoming of your pretty face.

I’m sorry!

All I can do is say that I’m sorry and scream it to the mountains,

praying that you’ll hear me.

Praying that you can forgive me,

praying that this nightmare of a life without you can somehow change.

And I want to cry,

I want to cry and be done with it all so badly.

I just want to scream my apologies to the heavens

to see if anyone cares about them at all.

I just want to cry and wail.

But it’s not that easy, is it?

It’s not as easy as crying and letting the tears wash you away.

Because every time I think of you I feel my heart break in two,

over again,

and over again.

By now it’s in so many pieces that it is a molecule’s molecule,

and atom’s atom.

And I wish that I could just cry,

because maybe then I’d feel better.

But,

darling,

losing you can’t be solved by

just some water

and some salt

flowing down my face from my eyes.

I’m sorry.

This

is my last goodbye.

Though you’ll never recieve it.

 

He’s a Complicated Man

“The most important things are the hardest to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them — words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they’re brought out. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you’ve said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That’s the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.”

-Stephen King