Evangeline's Story

Dear Diary,

     I got into another fight with her again today. I feel like that's all school is now- dirty glances, mean comments, and offensive gestures- all from my best friend. Can you love someone and hate them at the same time? And am I still allowed to call her my best friend if the only time we talk is to accuse each other of being horrible people?

     I realize that some of it was my fault. I mean, nothing is ever one sided, right? I'm guilty, but she is too. You just don't do those things to someone that you love, you know?

     So here I am at home again, sitting on my bed and simply hoping that things will change. Or maybe even that things will just stop.

     Sometimes I'm just done.

     But I'll wait. Because I know that you can't be alone. You just can't live like that. So, I'll be patient. And I'll hope. Because sometimes that's all you can really do, isn't it?

                                                                         From,

                                                                            Evangeline

Key:

Plot

Characters

Setting

Conflict

Theme

Finding the Gallery

Original:

But when he passed through the museum’s metal detectors and entered the crowded gallery, he saw that the other people at the exhibit of “Marc Chagall’s Russian Years” were little more than walking ghosts: his mother, his father, preserved in other people’s skin. Glimpsing the side of a woman’s head—a younger woman, of course, but another remarkable thing about the dead is that they are all ages, preserved at every age you ever knew them, and at no age at all—he had to fight the impulse to glance at the profile again, unwilling to feel the sick relief that came with confirming an unfamiliar face. It was easier to look at art.

Found Poem:

When he entered the gallery of ghosts

he saw them.

It was little more than an impulse

to feel the easy relief

that came with walking

through the remarkable exhibit.

They are preserved at no age at all,

with unfamiliar faces

that look at him through the years.

A profile of a younger woman he knew

fought against his unwilling glance-

he remembered the remarkable

and passed on through,

for it was easier to look at art.

A Letter from Evangeline

Dear You,

Things are not the same.

I sit in the room that we always used to sit in. It looks the same- the old plaid couch with the tattered armrests. Your bright green galoshes beside the door. The faded yellow curtains hanging lifelessly from the rod that took you three hours to nail into the wall. 

Three hours.

It looks the same. But it’s not. I stand by the window and run my fingers along the edge of the right curtain, just like you used to. You called it your nervous habit. I called it your happy habit.

When you were here, rain was falling from the trees. I look outside now and leaves fall instead. I feel like those dead leaves, you know? After I fell I just laid there, no where else to go. Waited for someone to make me crumble with just a touch. What happens now? Do I disintegrate? Do I go back to the earth? 

And fall again.

Maybe by the time I fall we’ll have come full circle. I’ll be in the kitchen and the rain on the windows will disguise the sound of the door quietly closing. But I’ll know that you’re there, like I always do, and poke my head out from the kitchen to see you shaking your umbrella and slipping off the galoshes.

The curtains are a little more worn out than when you left.

Why did you like plaid that much, anyway? Was it really necessary that the curtains were plaid as well as the couch? 

But I mind less now that you’re not here. And the stripes criss-crossing each other. Repetitive. The edge of the curtain is soft now, and a little bit dirty from your hands, and then my own.

No, things are not the same. And I don’t like it.

Sincerely, Me

P.S.   I’m waiting for the rain.

The Damsel in Distress

 

You say I need help

You say I need you

You say I need this

You say I need anything

But myself

When I was still young

I knew my ABC's and my 123's

When I was still young

I could tie my shoes and braid my hair

But I'm older now and

I don't need a chair to reach the sink

And I'm older now and

I can clean my own messes

When I fall now

I don't need your hand

When I fall now

I can pick myself up

When I fall now

It won't be for you

No. It won't be for you.

'Cause I'm older now and

I can sign my own name

And I'm older now and

I live all by myself

When I fall now

I can get back up

When I fall now

I know how to pull the string

When I fall now

It won't be for you

No. It won't be for you.

'Cause I'm older now and

We aren't playing games

And I'm older now and

I'm not the damsel

And I'm older now and

You aren't the prince

And I'm older now and

I don't need you to save-

Because I've got me and

That's all I need.

Direct Orders

“Rock out?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Rock out like you just found your soul mate after a lifetime of looking.

Rock out like the red pumps in the window display are fifty percent off.

Rock out like everyone you’ve ever known, everyone you’ve ever loved, has left you and you’re all, all alone now but finally… there’s no one to impress.

Rock out like he’s finally kissing you. (Except maybe don’t rock out right at this exact moment.)

Rock out like your letting all the tears go after years of holding them in, like the rain is a symphony that you’ve been deaf to, or like you’ve just discovered you’re significant.

Or maybe, insignificant.

Rock out like you know for a fact that they love you.

Rock out like you sucked the whole sucker and didn’t even bite it once or like your mom made your bed for you and she doesn’t mind that you’re going to mess it up in like two seconds anyway.

Rock out like they are 99% sure that the cancer is not going away. Rock out like it’s all you have to live for, now.

Rock out like you just got your first paycheck and you are going to blow it on stuff that in no way do you actually need.

Rock out like you’ve got the universe to explore and only five minutes or like you’re avoiding your homework. Because you are, you always are.

Rock out like you walked in the door and it smells like fresh chocolate chip cookies or maybe mud pies in the rain, like it smells like your childhood.

Rock out like you just saved somebody’s life and when they asked how they could ever repay you, you don’t reply- you’re too busy doing the Electric Slide.

Rock out like he just told you that you are, in fact, beautiful and so it must, must be true.

Rock you like you just got it. Like you just got her. Like you just got him. Like you just got everything you’ve ever wanted and life is finally okay.

More than okay.”

And so she did. She rocked out like there was nothing else in the world to do besides rock out because there she was-- letting her life pass her by.