Tiny Tuesday...(m)
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Tiny Tuesday...(m)
| Tue, 03-12-2002 - 7:20am |
Tiny Tuesday...(m)
Gosh, is it Tuesday already? LOL.
Okay, here goes: Squeeze this sentence into your 500 or less word piece. "Get your damn feet off that desk and listen to me!" Have fun, Sammi

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TT: Not Again...
Just squeaked in at 499 words. This is a dark topic. Read with caution.
Eyewrite
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Not Again
She scans the folder and thinks for a minute.
“It’s been three weeks since the funeral. Do you feel like talking about it?â€
I shrug.
“When was the last time you spoke with your son?â€
The therapist asks me these questions and I try not to cry. I’m all drugged up on anti-depressants and I can feel rather dreamy, until the dose runs out and I crash into a hair-tearing, screaming and crying and howling mess. She sits there with her perfect highlights and her creamy exfoliated skin and she’s never had a problem in her life.
“Tuesday. At my office.â€
“Why was he at your office?â€
My head drops into my hands and my words become muffled.
“He was suspended from school again.â€
“For starting a fight?â€
I nod.
“This was the third school you tried, right?â€
I nod and reach for a tissue.
“What happened that day?â€
“Before school, they cornered him in the parking lot, stole his jacket, and dumped his book bag into the muddy creek. He carried everything with him because they kept breaking into his locker.â€
She taps notes into her computer.
“What happened next?â€
“In geography, some kids set fire to his hair and glued his bum to the seat with sixty-second epoxy.â€
She nods and peers over her vase at me.
“And then he started the fight in the classroom?â€
“Yes. The teacher had left the room and Ron smashed one kid’s head into the chalk rail. He threw another kid against the door and shoved a fist into the kid’s gut. Then the other kids jumped on him and stomped on his face, laughing.†My insides ache. I was bullied in high school too. I hated that he had to live the same hell.
“What did he do?â€
“He changed clothes. He always brought a change of clothes. he principal sent him to my office with a two-week suspension.â€
“How did you feel?â€
Carmine-red rage boils up my spine and leaps from my lips. “How do you think I felt? Ashamed. Frustrated. Mad. Depressed. We tried so many schools and we couldn’t get away.â€
“What did you say to him?â€
He had his feet on my desk and clumps of mud and was dropping onto my reports. The halogen lights glinted off his glasses and exaggerated his acne.
“Get your damn feet off that desk and listen to me!â€
“And then what happened?â€
“He swore at me and left my office. On my way home I got a call on my cell from Valley General. He’d O.D.’ed.â€
I spent the night in the hospital while the doctors tried everything they could. When I got home I found a letter on the table. It read:
Mom, I know this will hurt you but I cannot live with this torture any longer. I’m not strong enough. Please know that I love you and that I’m with Pop-Pop now. We’re probably playing checkers as you read this. I’m sorry. I love you.
This is great work, Eyewrite.
I don't think there's any pain greater than losing a child, and you did a good job portraying the mother's agony.
TT time
I was thinking of calling this "I am woman, hear me roar," but then realized what I was doing and stopped myself.
Here goes...
Ramona
===
Betty was standing with her back to me. She slowly turned around to face me, placing her hands on her hips.
“Get your damn feet off that desk and listen to me!” She shook her right arm for emphasis.
I looked up at Betty from my vantage point in my favorite bean bag chair. I slowly popped my third wad of Juicy Fruit gum and tried to look interested. Actually, I was supposed to be looking menacing, which isn’t that easy to do when you’re slouching in a bean bag. Nevertheless, I think my performance was still more convincing than Betty’s.
I really shouldn’t complain. After all, it was really my own fault. I’d agreed to help Betty practice her lines, since she had her heart set on getting this role. But that was two hours ago, and my attention span gave out on me long before my sore bottom did. Besides, I was getting a little antsy since it was getting close to dinnertime.
Most people, with very little annoying provocation, can blow their tops. Betty, however, couldn’t sound upset even if you’d just dowsed her with a bucket full of ice cold water in the middle of winter. Sure she’d be upset, but she’d never *sound* upset. Whenever Betty raises her voice, it just never sounds like she’s angry. In fact, when she raises her voice it always sounds like she’s just getting over a bad bout of laryngitis.
I cleared my throat, shifted my gum to the other side of my mouth, and delivered my line: “Don’t you sass me like that, woman!” I’d repeated the line so many times that I didn’t need to look at the script any more. I wiggled around in the bean bag to try and get more comfortable.
I waited for Betty’s next line – “That’s right! I AM a woman, a woman with needs!" – but it didn’t come. Instead, Betty sighed and plopped down on a futon. “Look,” she told me, “I think we need a break. This isn’t working.”
“OK. How about we go out for something to eat? I’m starving.”
Betty nodded in agreement. She helped me up from my bean bag and we grabbed our coats on the way out.
It’s about a three block walk to the Burger Baron’s. I ordered my usual, and Betty ordered her usual. “With no onions and no secret sauce,” she said.
We got our orders and made our way to an open table. Betty opened her hamburger, which was smothered in about a half-cup’s worth of secret sauce. Plus extra onions, too.
Betty’s normally meek voice then let out a stream of blue expletives that could make a sailor blush. I hadn’t heard her sound so upset in quite a while. Evidently the manager heard her anger too, because he rushed over with a complimentary burger, no onions or secret sauce.
It seemed as if Betty’s anger had finally found its voice.
And she got the role a few days later.
I Like It!...
What was the role Betty was trying out for anyways? Too funny that it took a burger haven's mixup for her to find her angry voice. You painted a marvellous scene. Good job.
Eyewrite
Thank you shmoopy! (nt)
How sad, but great job (m)
showing us this woman's pain. I was so sad at the end when I read he’d killed himself. I don’t in any way like “home-schooling” but in some cases (like you’ve written about here) where the kid continues to be bullied, I think it’s the only choice. Too bad the Mom in your story didn't do it.
Not Again was really good and touched my emotions. Just a few places where I had questions/comments. How did he smash the other kid’s head into the chalk rail if his bum had been glued to the seat? Perhaps you can add that he’d ripped his pants when you mention the part about him having a change of clothes. Also, I don’t think the therapist would be typing notes on her computer during a session, so perhaps you could just say she noted these things on a writing pad.
You wrote another fine story, eyewrite (though I do need a tissue now, weep weep).
Mac
Cute Story, Ramona!!! (nt)
Sad...(m)
Kids are far more brutal than adults, aren't they? This was sad, but written well. Sammi
Funny!...n/t
Thanks, Mac...
Good point about the pants ripping because of the glue on the seat. As for the therapist typing, I was thinking of a "cool" therapist that doesn't really get into her job more than professionally necessary, so she would hide behind her laptop instead of taking notes. I was also thinking that maybe the therapist doesn't have the time to transcribe her handwritten notes.
Sunday was an anniversary of a teen who killed himself due to excessive bullying. His mother is still distraught and works very hard to bring bullying into the spotlight and try to prevent it.
Thank you for your kind comments. I always like your feedback.
Eyewrite
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