I like her eyes. I mean they’re eyes. They’re just brown. Maybe kind of greenish. But when she looks at me she actually sees me. For a long time anytime anybody looked at me it’s like they looked through me. I was just another punk kid on their list of punk kids that they get paid to look at. But she actually looks at me and then she smiles. God has that ever happened before? Sometimes – a lot of the time – I wonder what she sees. I want to ask. I know she’d tell me. After she gave me that “I’m glad you feel comfortable enough to ask” line. But I’m scared to ask. Not scared of what she’d say, but scared that what she sees isn’t really there.
She’s allright I guess. Not what I’m used to. Maybe that’s why I don’t mind her. She’s like forty something but you can’t tell. She looks more like thirty or so until you get close enough to see the “laugh lines” by her eyes. She doesn’t act like the other old people I know that always want you to talk and stuff. She really doesn’t much like to talk. I mean if something’s wrong all us kids know we can go to her. She’s just not one of those chatty grown ups that ask stupid questions all the time like how’s school going and what do you want to be and what’s your favorite subject and jesus shut the eff up, you know? When I get home she says hey and I say Hey back and we’re cool. She writes up a storm tho. All the time writing writing writing. She asked for spiral notebooks for Christmas.
So this was her idea. I told her I was bored cause I was which Zaxxson tells me later was a stupid move. You never tell your parents youre bored. I didn’t know. I haven’t had parents since I was 8. And she told me to write. Write about what I ask her and she says I don’t care then goes back to her laptop.
So here we are out on the patio. Write about whatever. Tree tree tree grass grass grass. Needs mowed. Don’t tell her you’re bored or she’ll tell you to mow it. See, I’m getting the hang of this having a parent gig. The clematis is starting to bloom. Late, she says, but she didn’t build the trellis until memorial day.
Yeah, we have this garage, right, that’s like 24 feet long. Big tall long wall with nothing on it but beige siding. So we’re all out here Friday night eating on the patio and she says I can’t look at that anymore. That’s all she said. So the next day I go out to the lake with Zaxsson and some of his friends cause he's cool and invited me and when we get home there’s this whole lattice thing along the side of the garage with this arch thing in the middle and pots of clematis and honeysuckle. She did it by herself. Well my little sisters helped, but probably not much. She’s like that. Doesn’t mess around. I’m cool with that.
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not quite sure what this is but I do like the connection your making with the teens and the teacher who does’nt probe into their live to much like parents.And I’m not sure what the plot is but thats my thought.
I mean they’re eyes. I didn’t know what you were saying here…they are eyes?
I want to know who Zaxxson is, I imagine his brother? That’s my guess. This started off really strong and then I just had a hard time understanding the end. Why didn’t she want you to look at the garage, she didn’t like it? I think this paragraph needs to be expanded upon so that the reader can understand more of what is going on. I guess we just need a little more background thats all, this definitely does have potential though. I like the line
“Tree tree tree grass grass grass. Needs mowed.”
I am interested in reading more, how many sisters are there, how did he get there? I hope to read this again if you plan on rewriting it! Good luck!
seems like you notice alot of the small things that count most in that first paragraph
I was just another punk kid on their list of punk kids that they get paid to look at – this line seems like your one of them but dont like what you are
could use a little work but then mabey its just perfect the way it is
You express yourself very well. There is a writer in there. I like how you tell the reader that she listens to you and how you haven’t had parents since you were eight. I like how you pinpoint her eyes and how they look into you. She sounds like a wonderful person. Your good descriptions helped the reader understand the lady you were describing.Description is the key to a good blog or story. If you want a review come to me. I will be glad to look at anything you have. Please keep writing. It will help you sort out things. I think she has a good idea asking you to write. Thanks for sharing, Sandi
This is lovely. It seems the woman you wrote about is quite an inspiration to many young people and to you. One of the freshest lines you wrote is “So here we are out on the patio. Write about whatever. Tree tree tree grass grass grass. Needs mowed. Don’t tell her you’re bored or she’ll tell you to mow it.” It is a stream of consciousness coming straight from the heart. Like a poem. The only comment I have is that when you have someone speak, use quotes, it is easier for us to read what you mean. Good luck in the future. Hope you write a lot more!
Sounds like love…nothing weird, just pure love. Tempered by caution and insecurity—real life.
Vivid episode, with concrete description. Paints her character without depending on dialogue.
Watch punctuation. Who or what is Zaxxson?
Thanks for the read.
Comments: When I read this I thought that it was part of the novel treatments category. An intro, or first chapter. Finding out it’s a blog makes me even more amazed! It flows so smoothly, and the details, like the grass needing to be mowed is amazing. I love that whole part, that whole stream of thought. I also like how you describe her eyes in the beginning, I can really see her.
Suggestions: I suggest your turn this into a chapter of a story. I mean as I read it thinking it was part of a piece, I couldn’t find anything wrong with the setting, with the character development or the aim of the story. I think you have some thing here that wants to be more than what it is. This line reads rough, I would just reformat it:
“Write about what I ask her and she says I don’t care then goes back to her laptop.”
“Write about what,” I ask her.
“I don’t care,” she says going back to her laptop.
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