We are a class of many, and we have many voices, this Creative Writing class. Each voice is superb in its own right, each voice unique amongst a sea of others; other voices just as unique and special. Some voices speak of longing, others anger, others of nostalgic memory, and others still of patriotic heroes. Let this one piece attempt to bring the many together, and form one:
I am on a road-trip. Where am I going? Where did I start? Did I remember to go to the bathroom? The answers to those questions do not matter; I am too bored to answer them; too bored with the ride, bored with myself, bored with life. I need a chance, and I need it now . . . Unfortunately, this epiphany comes too late, as the car veers off course and to oblivion . . .
It is a dark, cold night; it seeps into my skin through some sort of cell diffusion, affecting my own mood, my own soul. I have no wish to see this man, but he wishes to see me. Why? What have I done to or for him? He certainly has done nothing for me, but many things to me. Why did you leave us; why did you leave her; why did you leave me? Were we not “good enough” for you? Here he comes; it is time for him to realize how I truly feel . . .
The car salesman sells cars. He sells them well; he makes sure that his customers get their money’s worth, or does he? Can you really trust him? What is his true agenda that he hides behind his sappy smile, his slimy, sticky skin? Your only friend is Consumer Reports . . .
The innocence of a child is the most pure happiness one could ever hope to find. They embody hope for the future, and fulfill our needs for love and life in the present. Such a shame that we cannot return to the childhoods we all just vaguely remember, and such a shame that these children may one day grow up to become the slobs we already are . . .
Not only are they New York’s Finest and Bravest, but they are the country’s. They are the unsung heroes of day-to-day crime, fires, and medical emergencies. Why look to comic book heroes that take care of the same tasks our police officers, firemen/women, and paramedics tackle every day? Why not look up to those who truly exist, the true Supermen and Wonder Women . . .?
As the Donkey of Shrek is fuzzy in the technical goofs, so is our future. Computer games show us only a glimpse of what may one day become a reality. We must turn to ourselves, and search within our souls, if we are to determine anything, if we are to set goals and achieve them, if we are to succeed . . .
Ah, the pleasures of past memories. How we long to return to the “days of old,” where everything was under a dollar and “everyone knew your name.” How we long to return to a time when threats were never real, when things were black and white and there was no splash of grey in the middle. How we long to return to our pasts, to make things right that have always been wrong, to lessen our future burdens . . . We had better start living for the future soon if we are to survive . . .
“Do you need a hug?” How many times has this question been answered with “No?” Many times. Some may find it annoying, but who ever speaks of their troubles anymore? We need to be true to ourselves, even if that means being true in private. The façade we put up in order to appear as happy as we hope our peers to perceive us withers and falters after prolonged use. So, take that hug; it’s a free recharge . . .
He’s a fast-paced boy with a one-track mind; there are so many things to do in so little time. Mustn’t let “them” know you’re going out; no, “they” must hear the other story. Enjoy that ride, boy, for it may be your last; enjoy that part, boy, for it may be your last; enjoy that girl, boy, for she may be your last . . . Return to Creative Writing Pieces
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