Forgive Me

I wrote this story about forgiveness. I haven't posted in a while but I'm back with this story and I hope you like it!

Telling people what to do, that gives power. Doing work for someone higher than you, that gives no power. Me? I am the powerful one.  Ava Hawthorn, the one who tells people what to do. I work at the wonderful “Sixteen”- a fashion magazine that I am the editor of, and the only one higher than me is the publisher, and honestly, I am so amazing, that I control him. It’s like cat and mouse. I am the cat and he is the mouse. I chase him around giving him every single detail and making it sound so perfect that he can’t refuse. I am living my dream! My dream to be in charge, to have power and best of all to do something I love. Little did I know, this was going to change….. and fast.

It was Friday evening, I was wrapping up in the office and getting ready to go home and then, I get to visit my elder sister. I love visiting her. She is amazing. Her name is Aurora and we are best friends. We look completely different though. She has brown hair and I have dirty blonde, she has brown eyes, I have blue. But we are similar in so many ways that it’s hard to count. She is a beautiful person, with a kind hearted gentle personality. It is impossible not to like her. We were not always this close, honestly three years ago we hated each other. We picked fights all the time, we disagreed with everything we said and it just never worked out between us. When we lost our mom to cancer three years ago, it was hard on both of us. Our mother was our rock. She was someone who would always catch us when we fell. She helped us solve every disagreement we had and she just loved us with all her heart. It was a tough journey to get from being a complete mess to being better people. We decided that we would stop fighting, we figured that’s what our mother would have wanted and we became best friends.

It’s been like this ever since. We can always talk to each other about anything. I always go to her house when I needed help and when I felt that work was getting over my head and she always helped me out. She has great advice, always has. I love going to her house, not only because I get to spend time with my sister, but because I get to spend time with my adorable nephew Caleb. He is a 1 year, 8 months old precious boy who I absolutely adore. I help her out with him a lot, I baby-sit him when she needs to go out to the mall to pick up something, or when she just needs a break.

I parked my red volvo in my sister’s driveway. I popped the inflatable dummy which I use to go in the carpool lane. It’s a lot faster than taking the regular roads through the city, driving through the city is a nightmare, after all this is LA! I pulled out the bags from the passenger seat and shut the door. I walked down the pavement in my red heels and knocked on the door. A few minutes later I heard the clunking of boots running down the staircase and the locks snapping and finally the door swung open. There she was, my sister stood there in her dark-washed jeans and a printed shirt. She sighed and fell into my arms. “I am so glad you are here!” she sighed into my ear. She pulled away from our hug and then she went on a ramble about diapers and other things that I couldn’t really catch.

“Woah, woah, woah! Slow down! Ok tell me what happened.” I said trying to calm her down.

“Well, I ran out of diapers for Caleb and he’s crying and I have to feed him and I can’t do that because I ran out of baby food.” she said, stressed out.

“Ok, should I go get it? Give me a list and I will pick up everything you want, ok? Now just calm down sweetie” I said in the most calming voice i could possibly get out of me.

“No! You won’t know what to get, he’s allergic to peanuts and a lot of work goes into getting the right things!” she yelled “I’ll go, can you please please please watch him”

I giggled under my breath,  “Of course! Go! I’ll handle him”

She thanked me, kissed Caleb goodbye and left the house hurriedly. I walked up the stairs to Caleb’s room and picked him up from his little crib. He wasn’t crying anymore. We spent an hour chasing a balloon which I blew up especially for him until the phone rang. I left him and ran to pick up the phone. “Hello?” I said. A familiar voice was heard at the other end. I responded to the voice, “Daddy! Hi!”. It was my father. He was the last adult figure I had left, apart from my sister, who I did not really see as an adult figure, more like an equal. I talked to him for the next 5 minutes, we giggled, we laughed, we had minutes of seriousness, all in all, it was a normal conversation between father and daughter. I was just about to give my dad an update on my job when I heard a thud and then silence before a piercing cry filled the air. I panicked, I dropped the phone, praying for the best, I stormed upstairs. I shoved the door out of my way and the worst possible situation was revealed, it felt like a punch in the face.

Caleb on the floor struggling to get up and still managed to cry really hard. His nose was covered in blood. I lifted him up and bounced him up and down trying to get him to stop crying. I lifted his arm and it was blue. I was officially freaking out. I scolded myself in my head as I hopped into my car, buckled him in his car seat and drove to the LA Children’s Hospital. I parked my car and ran Caleb into the ER. He was taken to get an X-Ray. I knew he was in good hands with the nurses so I had to call my sister and fill her in on everything that happened. I was dreading to do this because I knew she is going to be so mad at me. I picked up the phone, dropped a quarter in and dialled her number.  The second I told Aurora that Caleb was in the hospital, she disconnected the phone and was in the hospital in the nick of time just when the nurse came out to give us the results of the X-Ray.

“His muscle surrounding his arm has torn and his nose has stopped bleeding. Your lucky! If his crib was any higher, he could have broken his bone.” the nurse said before walking away. I opened my mouth to say something but my sister stopped me.

“This is your fault! I left you with him to watch him and where were you when this happened?” she questioned angrily.

Shamefully, I admitted that I was downstairs talking to our father. A look of disgust was shot at me before she yelled out, “I hate you! Get out!”. A tear flowed down my face as I tried to reason with her but she walked away. I watched her walk into Caleb’s room, I saw the door closing behind her. My sister hated me, I probably will never see Caleb again, everything in my life went downhill since then. My newest issue of Sixteen did not sell too well, my car broke down and I got sick. I tried calling my sister like a million times but to no avail. She blocked my number. I had no idea what was going on in her life, how Caleb was doing, all I got was a weekly update from my dad who also seemed mad at me.

It was three months later, and Caleb was turning two. I hadn’t seen him since the accident and had not talked to Aurora either. My life could not be going worse, I lost my job because of the three issues in a row that no one bought and I was working in a grocery store checking out items for the customers. I hated myself, and that negative power of hate was altering my perception of life. I was once a bouncy, happy and successful woman who lived everyday like its her last and now I am a miserable, unsuccessful and just a negative person who could not wait for life to end. The three months when my sister hated me made me realize how much I needed her and just made me realize the impact of things on people’s life. Forgiveness does not come like that. It takes time and a big heart to forgive someone who hurt you and Thanksgiving was the best day of my life. It was the day that my sister forgave me, it was the day things went right. It was the day that, after another 3 months of crying on the phone and begging for forgiveness she accepted my apology and things went right.

We are family, and that is not determined by a birth certificate or a marriage certificate, it is determined by the heart and every family has it’s ups and downs. Forgiveness trails along with family, no family can survive without forgiveness. I am thankful that my sister forgave me.

A Thousand Questions

I wrote this story to get the reader thinking. It is different from what I have written before but I like it and I hope you do too!

Humans are fascinating. The way they walk, run, talk, eat, and behave. You can find out a lot about people by just watching their movements, their conversations and the way their eyes dart when someone taps them on their shoulder. But the question that really strikes my mind is -WHY? Why do these people do what they do?

Most people think I am a creepy girl who contents herself by “spying” on people but I am not a spy. I simply observe different people in their natural surroundings. Like this one time, I was in Central Park and I was feeding the thousands of pigeons that circled above the grassy lands and the green trees in hope to find someone who has a smallest bits of food with them. I just sat there mindlessly for over an hour throwing all the seeds from the little bag and watched this woman trying to handle this little boy who was throwing a fuss. I watched her as she struggled just trying to put a sweater on the boy. I guessed she was the nanny. I could tell because the boy wore cashmere and the full-grown brown haired woman wore polyester.

This other time, I was watching this man who was trying to sell his fruit in the park, walking around yelling “Fresh Fruit!” on the top of his lungs as if his life depended on selling every single piece of fruit on that day. I decided to buy an apple from him after I saw him get attacked by the pigeons who were basically biting each other trying to get the rotten mango. He managed to get rid of them by throwing the mango into the fountain which within seconds of his throw was hounded by pigeons. He wore a red shirt and black pants. He sported a torn apron and broken shoes. I suspected that he was one of the lone indigent people who travelled around the city trying to sell whatever they managed to get their hands on.

The city New York was a place for people to find themselves and who they want to be. It is home to Broadway and many famous stars and yet it is home to thousands of people who don’t have it as good as other do, like the one I saw in the park. I have lived in New York for over twelve years and just so you know, I am 15 years old. I live in a small house around the central park with my mom and dad and my little sister, Nina. My name is Danni Kid. I was born in Kansas City and spent two and a half years of my life there and then we relocated to New York when my dad got a job as a salesman in Janice and Johnny Inc. He makes just enough money for a small house, food and occasional new clothes. My sister has spent all 7 years of her life here and has been to Kansas only once to visit our grandparents. I gained an interest in people watching when I was 12 and I would say that I am an expert at it. I know how to watch someone without letting them know that I am watching. Only the best people watchers can do that. I have not yet discovered myself yet. High school is torture, well mainly the classes and all the kids and teachers except for my two best friends, Alana and Kimberly. They are the only ones who understand me. My mom is way too spiritual. She spends all her time doing yoga or listening to weird music. Not that I have a problem with it  but it just gets annoying sometimes. My sister? Well, let’s just say she likes pink. I hate pink. Its like the barbie of all colours. I hate barbies. My favorite color is transparent, it has no meaning, you can see straight through it. That’s me. I have no secrets, you can see right through me.

Anyways, back to the sport of people watching. Have you ever wondered how the difference in peoples behaviour affects how others see them? Well, I was watching this guy. He was dressed in black and his hair was long enough for someone to mistake him for a girl. He sat behind a fence and his iPod was plugged in. He sat there covering himself from the burning sun as if he was afraid that he would melt if he came in contact with the sun. I don’t see why. He was wearing like 5 layers. He sat there with his eyes closed as if he was trying to really understand the lyrics of the music he was listening to when he was interrupted by a bouncing ball that came his way. A little blonde boy approached him slowly as if he was scared. The guy picked up the ball and handed it to the boy and gave him a creepy stare. The boy screamed and ran away scared by the way he looked. The fact that the guy bothered to give the ball to him instead of just staring at him showed that he was sensitive and was trying to help the boy. Why do people judge others from the way they look? The guy might have a completely different personality that he never got to show because no one was willing to give him a chance only because of the way he looked.

This other time, I saw this girl. She looked like a human barbie. Her hair was blonde and dead straight. She wore a tight red shirt and mini skirt, which was pink. She was a combination of the two things I hate, pink and barbies. The most disturbing thing about it was that there were 3 guys following her like her own little puppies. Which brings me back to my original question, why?

Why do people do what they do? Why do they judge something from it’s looks? Do you know why?

The L.A. Observer

I wrote this story about work at the newspaper and always being happy with who you are and to never let anyone get in your way of success. I hope you like it!

“Deadline in 5 minutes!” the boss called out poking his head out of his office door. I typed the last few words for my article before hitting the command P buttons on my MacBook Pro ordering my computer to print the document. I raced to the printer, picked up my freshly printed piece and stapled the 5 pages in order. My feet automatically took charge, ran me to the story drop box and I dropped my article in. Just in time, my boss walked out and screamed in his loud, nasal voice, “Ok, times up, all stories in the dropbox are going in the paper”. Some of the workers cheered and others moaned in disappointed that their article didn't make the cut.

It was late on a Friday night and the deadline for the L.A. Observer had just reached. The office was getting ready for the Sunday Observer to be printed. The night had fallen, the stars were up in the sky twinkling as if they were talking to each other. The owls hooted, the crickets chirped and the disturbing sound of traffic was heard across the silent office as I got ready to leave the office and head home. I packed my stuff into my red purse and opened the wooden door just when my boss, Mr. Damon Wagner came out of his office.

He rubbed his eyes and yawned. He seemed tired. He called me over asking me to wait for him. I rolled my eyes. I didn't really like him, mainly because he didn't like me, well atleast I think he doesn't like me. I stood there awkwardly desperate to go home and snuggle into my soft bed and have a good nights sleep. “Your piece better be good, I hope” he said as the two of us walked out the door. “You and me both sir” I called out as we went our different ways to our cars. Mr. Wagner was a tough man. His eyes sagged down covered up by his thick brows and furrows. His balding head looked good with his white shirt, grey suit and red tie. His bitten nails were signs of nervousness and his wrinkles showed signs of aging. He was a good man, but could get pretty nasty if you turn in a bad article or just annoyed him on his bad days.

I jumped into my silver convertible and popped in my 90’s Rock music CD into the player and turned on the ignition. I reversed my car out of the parking space and drove out the office grounds as I rocked out to the Spice Girls “Wannabe”. The drive home was long and irritating considering the huge amount of traffic and the horrible drivers who constantly popped their heads out to yell at other bad drivers. I finally reached my apartment by the Santa Monica Pier, opened the door, dropped my bag on the floor and collapsed on the couch. I quickly opened up some cup noodles, heated the water up, made it and watched “America’s Next Top Model” while I ate. It was the final episode of cycle 19. Laura James walked down the runway followed by Kiara Belen. I cheered them on as each of the 3 finalists went ahead in the competition. Finally, the winner was announced. “And America’s Next Top Model is………. Laura James” I jumped and screamed in my living room, which was pretty pathetic considering there was no one to share the excitement with. After the show was over, I went to bed.

It was Monday. The wonderful weekend had passed and now it was time to go to work. I got dressed in my regular white blouse and black pencil skirt and added a pair of red stilettos to spice it up a bit. I ate my breakfast, which was always toast and a cup of coffee, black, unsweetened, no foam. After that, I tied my brown wavy hair up and put on some lip balm. I got out of the house and jumped in my car stopping at Starbucks on the way to pick up the coffee for my boss. It was my job to do that every Monday and Tuesday. I walked from there to the office which was just a block away.I dropped the coffee in Mr. Wagner office and walked to my desk. A copy of today’s newspaper lying there, which was normal, but their was something unusual next to it. It was an envelope which had my name written on it. I immediately recognized the handwriting to be my boss’s. I ripped it open and read it.

Hi Diane,

Bad news coming your way. Your piece was terrible, it was like you had not learnt anything the past year you have worked here. I just cannot keep someone who writes like that. I need you to pack your stuff up. Your resignation should be on my desk by tomorrow afternoon.

-Damon Wagner

(Editor, The L.A. Observer)

I read the piece of paper over and over again until it finally sunk in that I had just been fired. I could see my colleagues eyeing me with a disappointed look on their face as if they knew that I had just been fired. A tear welled up in my eye as I pulled out the papers I had put up on the corkboard by my desk. I looked at the pictures which were put up there, the picture of me and my colleague, Amy on our shopping trip and the one with me and Adam, the intern on our fishing trip. We both looked happy because we had just caught out first. The cards that I had received on my birthday laid on a pile in a big box as everyone watched me pack my items up in shame. I put the pen stand into the box and looked at my strangely empty desk. I ripped out a paper from my office notebook and scribbled down my resignation. As I wrote this heart-wrenching piece I began to think about all the articles I wrote for the paper, all the times I woke up early to get coffee for my boss, all the times I spent editing my piece and making it just right until I finally realized that my whole life revolved around the paper. I did everything for the paper, I didn't have any friends outside of work, and I spent every minute of my life thinking whether my story was good enough or if I had done exactly what I was told to.

I remembered all the times my boss said my story is not good enough and how he criticised my until I finally realised that I have better things to do in life than always hoping that I am good enough. Why should I care about what that old man who doesn't know anything about modern minds thinks of me? I am GOOD ENOUGH! I don't know why I ever doubted myself. The progress I have made from the time I started out in the office as an Intern to now, a writer. I know that now, I am better and I have changed in more ways than one. I know that I am amazing in my own way and I should never doubt myself again. It doesn't matter what other people think of me, it matters what I think of me, and I know that now.

Heart to Heart

I wrote another story and I think that its good so I want to share it. Hope you like it!

The luscious greenish blue river flows in the middle of two strands of beautiful, bricked houses. A few trees stood within equal distances of each other leaning in towards the river. The river flows fast, leaving the noise of water rushing downstream in the air. Voices can be heard from inside the houses as the bright lights from the houses stream outside through the windows. Light can also be seen from the black painted street lamps stand there, attracting many moths to it. The cobblestone pathway runs alongside the river for over a kilometer with a black detailed railing stands keeping the barrier between water and land. Just where the pathway ends, an arched bridge stretches over the river and connects the two sides of the road. The river sparkles as the rays of light hit the water and break into thousand pieces, like gems spread across a pebbled floor. They sky was as clear as a crystal and the moon isn't visible for miles. You can see the dark shadows of mountains in a distance. The town was buzzing.  

It was a strange night.There seemed to be a chill in the air. I walked down the pathway, shoved the key into the keyhole of my house and walked in. I took off my coat and hung it on the rack. I walked in and stepped on an envelope. I moaned in pain as knelt down putting pressure on my left knee, and picked it up. I ripped open the envelope and unfolded the letter inside. I read the letter slowly and carefully.  

Dear Julie,

How are you? I know it’s a shock to hear from me but I have to tell you something. It’s about dad. He’s dead. I know what you're thinking, What? How? That’s why I wrote to you, I felt that it was my job as your sister to tell you, even though you stopped talking to dad years ago. It was about 2 months ago when he was diagnosed with cancer. I mailed you about it but I know you didn't read it because I got it back in the mail a few days ago unopened. He had a tumor in his brain which has grown quickly over the months. The doctors said he had a week to live. After a week, he was still alive so we thought that he was going to be fine. The next few weeks were fine. He was laughing, he was fine. This week was incredibly hard for him. He was sick the whole week, tired from the medication prescribed to him and overall not feeling good. Me and Mom have been here the whole time. We wished you were there too. It was Tuesday morning when the heart monitor sounded the long beep which indicated his death. Mom is a mess. She didn't have the courage to reach out to you so I decided to mail you and see what happened. I know that you are still mad at him about the incident with your job but he is your father. Give him a chance. He loved you, he mentioned you a few minutes before he took his final breath.

We’re holding his funeral on Sunday. Please come. Give your father a chance. Give us a chance. We love you. always will. Even if you don’t show up on Sunday, we won’t be mad, we’re going to be disappointed though. Please come. We miss you.

Sincerely,

Jessie

I took a deep breath and collapsed on the couch. A tear streamed down my eyes as I thought about not having my father there for me anymore. My mind was flooded with different thoughts, in other words, I was confused. Should I forgive my father after what he did to me or should I stay and continue with my job?

My eyes were wide open. It was 3am and I was still awake. I couldn't sleep. I got out of bed and went to the kitchen, poured myself a glass of milk and sat on the counter. I could hear the clock ticking, the crickets chirping, and the rain pouring outside. The letter sat on the counter. I reached for it slowly and picked it up. I read it again and finally I gave up. I couldn't hold a grudge against my father for so long that it would keep me from going to his funeral. I ripped out a piece of paper from my notebook which lay in the corner behind the scented candle which burnt calmly until it blew out as I pulled the paper out of my notebook and over the candle creating a slight wind. I lit the candle again and wrote “I will be there” in large capitals on the paper and signed my name under it and threw it on the floor.

A sudden rage erupted out of me like an active volcano. I screamed, and kicked the chair. I ripped apart my notebook and dropped it on the pebbled floor. I tugged on my hair and screamed some more. I shoved the glass door open which led to the balcony and stood there clutching onto the railing. I stood there and calmed down, my hair and clothes drenched in the rain. I burst into tears. All this time, I was mad at him for something so small, when I could have talked to him, met him, loved him. I shrunk into a ball and sat on the balcony in the rain just crying. Finally, 30 minutes later, I got up and went to bed after I dried off and changed into warm clothes.

It was Sunday. Birds chirped and the sun shined. I drove for an hour until I finally reached Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. I stopped at the hotel I was staying in and changed into my black dress and then drove another 30 minutes to the church and burial ground right at the edge of the city.  I parked and walked inside the church which was crowded with people. I didn’t know my father was so popular. I climbed the stairs and then I saw my mother and sister standing there and greeting the guests. My mom and my eyes met. We stared at each other until I finally walked closer. We were an inch away from each other. Years worth of build up emotions gushed out of us both resulting into long hugs. I apologised for staying away from her all these years until she forgave me. I pulled away from the hug and walked to my sister. The same thing happened for the two of us. When it was time for the service to start, we sat down together in the front and listened as the pastor talked. It was just like any other funeral. People cried, the pastor gave an inspiring talk, people came up and shared thoughts about my dad, nothing special.

Until my mother made me go up and say something. I walked up nervously, my palms sweated in the anxiety. I reached the wooden podium. I rested my arms on it and cleared my throat. My eyes darted across the room observing the people sitting there who stared up at me hoping for  good speech. I was not good at this. The last time I gave a public speech, it was on my high school graduation. I stuttered as I tried to start my speech.

“The last time I saw my father alive was when I was 21 years old. I am 25 now. We had gotten into a fight about my job. He didn't approve of me being the assistant of a fashion designer, he didn't think it was practical. I got mad at him and left home, resettling in New York. I never saw him, talked to him, or even wrote to him. I was wrong. I spent 4 years of my life hating my father because of something so little and now he’s dead. I lost touch with my sister and mother and hardly ever spoke to them except for the yearly birthday call. About a week ago, I got a letter from my sister which basically said that my father’s is no more and I have to come home. I lost it. I spent an hour thinking, an hour crying in the rain and an hour hating myself for the stupid things I did. Families are supposed to stick together, they are supposed to help each other, always pray for the other’s success. Now I realize that my father just wanted me to have a good career, be respected, work hard, in other words, he just wanted the best for me. I realize that now, and I realize that it’s a bit too late but I know that my father is watching down on me from heaven and smiling. I love you daddy.”

THE END

Aunt Helen

I wrote this story a few days ago and I really like it so I decided to share it with you and see what you think of it! Hope you like it! Don't be afraid to give feedback in the comment section below.

It was a cold day in the middle of December and the neighbourhood church was crowded with a wave of people dressing black as they rolled in to pay respects to my late Aunt Helen. My aunt Helen was a beautiful lady with luscious, wavy brown hair, highlighted with streaks of blonde. Her long lashes complimented her innocent hazel eyes and her plump lips did the same to her face. Her slender figure was always dressed smartly in her sweet dresses. She believed in sensible footwear and always wore flats unless she was going somewhere fancy, then she would wear 5-inch heels and stomp around like a 200 pound man trying to stand on a 5 inch platform. Her nails were always perfectly manicured, even her toe nails. She always carried around a nail filer and would spend her free time shaping her nails or checking her Facebook to see if any of her old college friends got in touch with her about the thousands of reunions she put together so she can brag about her successful career as the assistant of an extremely famous fashion designer. She was extremely popular “back then”. She told me a ton of stories of the parties she threw for her sorority sisters.

Her face stained with tears and her brown eyes swollen over the grief, my mom stood in the corner and bawled into my father’s shoulder as she mourned over the loss of her dear sister. My mom and aunt Helen were incredibly close. They were like two peas in a pod, like peanut butter and jelly. They only stayed away from each other if they were busy or they got in a fight over something. They told each other everything, from problems about their jobs, to “personal problems”. The two of them loved playing basketball with me, my brother, and my father. We played it every time she came over after we ate aunt Helen’s favourite, pasta with a side salad. She was always there for me, I liked to talk to her about my problems rather than my mom, she was younger so I knew that she would understand.

I stood by the door of the church and welcomed everyone who came in. Some, shook my hand and said, in a very cold, unsympathetic manner, “I’m sorry for your loss” and others gave me a warm hug and in the middle of their tears said, “I’m am so sorry” and walked away. I tried to smile and greet them but it was really hard. I turned around to where her coffin lay shut. Surrounding the coffin were hundreds of flowers laid out in a very neat  and orderly way and below that were small tea light candles which were lit by the guests. Next to her coffin stood a framed picture of her on a wire easel. She had a smile on her face. Another tear streamed out of my eye. I felt a tap on my shoulder, I wiped the tear away and turned around. It was just another person who wanted to tell me the same sentence I have been hearing for the past 20 minutes.

Finally the pastor stood up on stage and began his speech. “We are gathered here to pay our final respects to…….” My heart dropped. “She’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead” I kept repeating these words in my head. I could taste the saltiness of a tear as one streamed down my cheeks and touched my lip.

Everyone was silent. I could hear the slight pitter-patter outside the church as it started to drizzle. The dark clouds rolled in as the white, fluffy clouds disappeared.The sky was grey and the wind howled furiously. I knew why the wind sounded so furious. I knew it. It was my fault. Everyone knew it. Aunt Helen is dead because of me. Even the wind knew it.

If I had just listened to my parents and waited for a couple of hours, she would still be here. The memories of the accident flooded my mind. I remembered the fatal drive to the mall just to get a pair of shoes before they sold out. I remember the headlights of the blue mustang coming closer and closer to our car. I remember the sounds which played out during this accident as if someone had recorded it and was playing it back to me. I remembered the honking, the screaming and the ambulance sirens ringing in my ear.

I remembered her majestic voice telling me to wait, how I annoyed her until she finally agreed, how I kept yelling “Faster!” in her ear as she drove the car.

IT WAS MY FAULT! I should have died, not her. Because IT WAS MY FAULT!

“It’s not your fault.The driver was drunk. He skipped the red light” an angelic voice told me. I knew it was in my head but for some reason it was very convincing. It felt as if a weight was lifted off my shoulders. I could feel the guilt fade away, I could feel my soul cleared of all sin. I realised, it was not my fault. It wasn’t. It was the drunk driver who killed my aunt.

“Now, I want to call Helen’s niece, Jessica Dawson to say a few words” the pastor said as he gestured to me inviting me up to the stage. I got up and shuffled out of the wooden church benches and walked up to the stage.I straightened my black dress and cleared my throat.

“Death ends a life, not a relationship. She may be dead, but she still remains here…..” I moved my arm and touched my chest, just above where my heart was “...in our hearts. Aunt Helen was an amazing lady. She touched many people, in many ways. She believed that imagination was stronger than knowledge, that dreams are more powerful than facts, that laughter was the only cure for grief. It’s how she lived her life. She laughed at every opportunity, she brought smiles to people who were in the toughest of situations. She died young, but her brightness will live on forever.”

THE END

Bethany Hamilton

Bethany Hamilton, born February 8th, 1990 from Hawaii is an American professional surfer. She is an inspiration to many. It was the end of October, 2003. Bethany was out surfing with her best friend Alana Blanchard and Alana’s father and brother. The two girls were 13 years old. At around 7:30 am, Bethany was lying on her surfboard, her arm dangling in the water when a 14-15 foot tiger shark attacked her. The shark bit off her left arm right below the shoulder. With the help of the Blanchards, Bethany was rushed to the Wilcox Memorial Hospital. By the time she reached the hospital, she had already lost 60% of her blood and was suffering from hypovolaemic shock. Her father who was in knee surgery at the time was already in the hospital. Bethany took his place in the operating room and doctor proceeded with stitching up the wound immediately. Being a professional athlete, she was able to cope with the blood loss and her recovery lasted a week until she was finally let out of the hospital.

A fisherman named Ralph Young conducted a search for the tiger shark which bit off Bethany’s arm. In late 2004, the tiger shark was caught, bite marks were compared to the one on Hamilton’s surfboard and it is confirmed by the police that this was the shark which ran away with the 13 year old’s arm.

Despite all the trauma of this tragic incident, Bethany was determined to return to surfing. Less than a month after the the incident, Hamilton returned to her board and adopted a custom made board which was longer, slightly thicker and had a handle for her right arm, making it easier to paddle. She was in the water day and night and was determined to surf again. Her hard work paid off in January, 2004 when she entered a major competition and placed fifth in the NSSA National Competition. The next year, she entered the NSSA Nationals again and this time, placed first despite the disadvantages she had of having only one arm. During this whole time, she said that all she had to do was have faith and everything will work out, and it did!.

Her story inspired many, in fact, MTV books published Bethany’s book “Soul Surfer: A True Story of Faith, Family and Fighting to Get Back on the Board” Also, a feature film “Soul Surfer” was released based around her book. She even won the Courage Teen Choice Award and the ESPY Award for the Best Comeback Athlete

The surfboard she was riding the day she was attacked is displayed at the California Surf Museum. Since her attack, she has been recognised and appeared on numerous television shows such as The Oprah Winfrey Show, The Ellen DeGeneres Show, The Today Show, etc.

Despite all odds, Bethany proved that no matter what difficulties you face in life, never give up and always stay positive.

Image from Flickr by Kanaka Menehune

Cousin Brother Blues

I wrote this story as a part of my Grade 7 english curriculum and I just really wanted to share this so I can get people to read it, I worked hard on it. so I hope you enjoy!

I could hear the crying of a newborn baby from the room. The high-pitched crying filled the air like a tire screeching on a smooth floor. We sat in the waiting room outside the delivery section of the local hospital. The smell of anxiety drifted through the air. The walls around me were white with little pink and blue dots to imitate the  staple colors of a young girl and boy. The waiting room just outside the delivery section was filled with anxious men waiting to receive news on their new son or daughter, elderly men and women waited for news about their child and grandchild and finally carefree children played around not knowing or caring about where they were. All these people were scattered  around, some sitting on the blue, uncomfortable, plastic chairs, some pacing around. Kids ran and crawled across the dirty, pebbled floor and others leaned on a wall with crossed arms in deep thought. Me and my whole family were in the midst of all these other people waiting for news from the nurse. The door to the delivery room opened, everyone looked up hoping it was news for them. A melody of sighs was heard as they saw the nurse head towards my uncle. She spoke to him for about a minute. I saw my uncle’s face light up over all the tension he was in. I knew that whatever the nurse told him, it was good news. A sense of relief surged through my body. The nurse then walked away and entered the delivery room once again to finish what she started.

My uncle walked towards all of us and took a deep breath. He smiled and said as he threw his hands in the air as if he was on a roller coaster, “It’s a boy!” Everyone was excited. I couldn't help but smile and laugh. Everyone was happy, except for my older sister who was hoping for a girl. Most of our cousins were boys. There were 5 boys and only 3 girls. I was disappointed that it wasn’t a girl but I was happy that it was a boy too. I guess I was sort of in the middle. We all had our share of excitement but now it was finally time to meet the lucky new addition to our family. We all walked into the room. Being the most excited, I led the group into the room. Then I saw him. His plump, cute little face, big brown eyes, thin lips and a button-like nose. He moved his hands slightly. His hands were small, and his fingers looked thin and brittle. His feet were bent as the soles of his feet touched each other.
I laughed. I got pushed aside by my cousins who were apparently as excited as I was. I didn't mind. I wanted to go see my aunt anyway. I moved towards the cold, sterile, dull coloured bed which looked as uncomfortable as a bed of nails. Heart monitors and all kinds of wires were thrown around like a bowl of spaghetti, the light gray railings on the beds seemed uncomfortable. The bed was slightly tilted upwards as if she was awake. My aunt was still unconscious from all the medication she was given by the doctors to heal the cut on her stomach.

She laid there on the bed, her eyes half open as if she was awake even though she wasn’t. Her head was tilted slightly to the left as she took small, yet deep breaths. I reached for her hand and held it. Her hand was strangely warm, her nails were painted a bright blood red which clashed with the bright blue veins sticking out of her wrist and upper side of her palm. Her hand twitched as if she felt someone had touched her. Her eyes slowly opened as she came to consciousness. Her eyes were a hazel brown, like a leaf in mid-autumn. Her long black eyelashes fluttered as she tried to adjust the sudden bright light from the darkness of her long sleep.  As her eyes opened, she looked at me and smiled, pleased to see all the company she had. She removed the strand of hair which fell on her face and put it behind her ear. She looked around, turning her head from side to side understanding her surroundings.

“Is it over? Is the baby out? Is it healthy?” she questioned softly after she understood where she was as her eyes stared straight into mine, still blurry from all the medicine. I could tell she was anxious to meet her son and to know how it was doing.She ran her fingers through her hair again. We spent almost an hour giving my aunt all the details and playing with my cousin. It was finally time to say goodbye. We all left with glum faces upset about leaving my aunt all alone in this strange unknown place even if she had been here for almost a week.

It was 2 days after we met baby Kabir for the first time. It was the day my aunt was released from the hospital. It was a bright sunny day. Hot and humid wind blew from side to side, after all, it was the middle of summer. The crows were perched on the lemon tree which grew in my grandmother’s backyard. They cawed loudly at each other as if they were talking. I sat on the swing set which hung on the tree and moved back and forth. I could hear the shuffling of feet from my grandmother's house as they were trying to get ready for the welcome home party we were throwing for my aunt and her new son. I sat there with a glum look on my face. I cracked my knuckles and held on to the chain of the swing. I clutched onto it tightly and and got lost in thought. My thinking was interrupted when I could hear the creaking of the gate. My mother walked in wearing her special, traditional indian clothing, her coloured red hair let out as it flowed back in the wind. Her face was pure, she had not applied her usual red lipstick and dark black eyeliner. From the corner of my eye, I could see her rolling her eyes, she pressed her lips together, approached me and crossed her arms. I could tell she was disappointed that I wasn't helping out with the party.
“You know, it’s pretty crazy in there! We could use an extra pair of hands.” she told me in a calm voice with a hint of stress and anger.
“I know” I said, emotionless.
“Okay, what’s wrong?” she said as she approached me and sat down on the second swing.
I wiped the tear which suddenly streamed out of my eye and turned to her. “What if everyone likes Kabir more than me? What if no one cares about what me or any of the other kids think?” I asked her.
Her face broke out into a look of confusion, “Honey, we all love you and all the others just as much as we love Kabir! You know that right?” She asked me.
Suddenly, I began to feel the wall closing in. I’m not used to having someone talk to me like this. I was losing space. I sucked it up and said to her “I’m just being weird. Overly-sensitive. I’m fine.” I got up and left my mother hanging. I could tell that she was confused on my sudden exit. She probably didn't understand what I was going through. I understood why she would feel upset after I did but what I don’t understand is why she would say what she just said to me. Maybe she meant everything she just told me or maybe she was just saying that to get me in a better mood, make me feel like someone cared, I guess I will never know.

I walked into my grandma’s house and approached my uncle. Before I could reach him, I heard my brother yell out, “SHE’S HERE!!!!” Everyone rushed out pushing each other aside so they could be the first one to see her. My aunt walked out the taxi we had called for her. She lifted the baby from her lap and held him. She gestured towards my father to help her get all her bags. My dad walked towards the car, picked up the one big blue bag from the back and paid the taxi driver. I went and helped my dad out while everyone circled around my aunt and brother to see Kabir. I lifted the blue bag with the help of my father and took it to the living room. He dropped it and went outside again but before he reached the door, the group walked inside. This time, my other aunt held Kabir. I noticed that my uncle was not there. I looked around the house. Just as I was going to go through the curtains which separated the two guest rooms I saw him. He sat on the corner of the bed, his hands supported his head as his back bent over towards the floor. His face was disoriented because of his hands which pushed his cheeks upwards. His clean-shaven face was hidden by his dark and dirty hands. His eyes were half open. I could tell he was in thought. probably thinking about all the responsibilities that were thrown at him the second this son was born. He seemed exhausted and overwhelmed. I had never seen my uncle like this. He always seemed very tough and always tried to have a good time. All the memories I had with him were exciting adventures we took together and how he would throw me up in the air when I was little. I finally realised, that there was truly a deep connection between us and I hated seeing him like this.

My uncle was a tall man. He had a clean-shaven, fair face. His dark brown hair was short, and straight almost like an animals fur but whenever he was nervous he would run his fingers through his hair and push it upwards creating short spikes, which he said, apparently made him feel younger and “hip”. I laughed so hard whenever he does that. We almost always made fun of each other in every conservation we had. His regular muscle tee and baggy jean really flaunted his big and strong muscles. He always made me smile. We were both proud to call each other family and wherever we went together we had fun, because we were so close.
I was interrupted when I heard the clip-clopping of heels heading in my direction. I turned around and my aunt stood there holding her newborn baby. She looked confused. I turned around and pointed towards my uncle. Her confused, yet tired face turned into a frown.

Unlike me, my aunt was brave.She wasn’t afraid to go and ask him what was wrong. She strutted down the hall and into the room with her head held high, just like a model and took a seat beside him. She stretched her arm and put it over his shoulder. She then said to him in an anxious yet soothing voice, “Hey! What’s wrong?”. My uncle looked up and stared into my aunt’s innocent eyes. He opened his mouth to talk when both of our eyes met. He had spotted me! As swiftly and quickly as I could, I shut the curtain and walked away pretending I hadn’t heard anything. After waiting for about one minute, I approached the room again. I pressed my ear against the curtain trying not to make it move. I felt bad about eavesdropping but not as bad as I felt for my uncle so I decided to continue eavesdropping. I heard voices. After approximately 2 minutes of continuous voices, I decided to take a quick look. Before I could, there was silence. I could hear the shuffling of feet on the pebble floor heading towards me. I ran and sat down on the couch and picked up a book which was lying there. Just then, my aunt and uncle appeared through the curtain. They were both smiling. My uncle held Kabir as he looked down and the puffy little blanket and smiled. My uncle came towards me and said, “Come on, you’re going to miss all the fun, we have cake!” he said.

But I still had no idea why he would be so calm with me. Honestly, if I had seen someone spying on a private conversation, I would be really mad at that person.
His eyes told me that he knew what I had saw and he didn't care. His eyes also looked calm. He smiled. I knew that he loved me, no matter what just happened. I smiled, got up and followed him. The whole family gathered around the dining table to cut the cake. I looked around the table. I saw my mother, my father, my brother, all my cousins, all my aunts and uncles and realised
how lucky I was to be in such a wonderful loving place. This experience changed me, I could feel it in my gut. I know now, that my family is there for me, and most of my insecurities were gone.  I raised my glass of coke into the air and said “To family and the love we share for each other”.

Image taken from my camera of my real cousin brother. 

Few of my Paintings

 These are a few of my paintings I have done in the past and I am very happy with the end result. I remember when I painted each on of them, I came across a problem but I overcame it and I think that it really added to my skills as a painter. I hope you like them!

"I dream my painting, I paint my dream" 

- Vincent Van Gogh

Quote from Goodreads.com. Post based on my experience.