SBC 4 Free choice

Hi guys, for this week we were told to write something of our choice and I decided to show 2 of the vignettes from my book that focuses on a 12-year-old girl called Maria.

My Decease Activated Rose’s Death
We die to live and live to die. Life is a choice. You get to decide how it works for you. But for me, life is going into bathroom stalls every school day. Even though I did not choose that, obviously. It’s as unfair as the Age of Imperialism was to the Africans. My mother says it’s good to thank God for giving you another day to live and my dad agrees with her. Sometimes I just stop stirring my tea purposely to see the bubbles go away and stare at them like stupid till I zone out. I wished my life would be as eventful as Hades’ wedding if it will ever happen. Or at least be like the teenage girl’s own that lives next door by herself most of the time. My neighbor next door never turns a stone with her high heels.
She was my friend. She is beautiful, people would say but I never saw the beauty in her. Sure, she was pretty, but not beautiful. She is as beautiful as Aphrodite, her mom would always brag. She has a twin brother and surprisingly he is as ugly as a frog whose face caught on fire and got poked by a fork. Though I don’t get to see much of him. Rose. Rose, that’s her name. Goes shopping so much. I told her right in her face that she is a pretty stupid girl. One day, when the flowers were singing and me and Rose were being carried by the hood of a car, she told me that she always wanted to be like me. And I looked at Rose like she booked a nose, we did not talk about it again. I am a living dead, I muttered the moment I entered my dad’s room to look at some books I was reading her letter. Her. Her, Rose. I want to be like you, I read, so I will start today though I am moving away. I did not see Rose ever again. Well not yet. Rose will become dosed by a white room with pink curtains, I can predict. And I read her letter every day. Maybe, I might have turned the stone for her. The one she never wanted to turn herself.

What About Me?
What About Me? I will wonder. I am the dirt under the foot of the family. I am nothing. Being nothing is a hurricane in a fragile glass cup and a disturbance in the system. It’s bad and sad. I look pathetic now. Being carried by my window ledge, munching on my chips, chunking these thoughts in. Then I will think. I will think about my dad’s cooking with his awesome skills. About my mom’s awesome voice releasing itself. My sister dancing to the 8:00 playlist, about my brothers who everyone thinks, will be the next Messi and Ronaldo. About my grandmother a wild horse of a woman. Then about me. Me. What about me? I am not doing anything, just sitting there with the rope of my hoodie strangling me, looking at them, doing their thing. I look pretty ugly. Nothing is about me, not a smart girl, not the awesome girl I am supposed to be. I took a quiz about my spirit animal, I got a tiger. A Tiger for hell’s sake. Tigers’ are treasured typical things. I was clearly confused that day. I still think – Ow! What did you do that for? I asked my brother. Well, you are an example of great depression so I thought I could lighten the mood, he replied. Great depression. By kicking a bowl of snails at me? I shuddered, and he just shrugged. A great depression, he called me a great depression, I sighed. It’s beautifully painful. I stared out the window again at the lonely chairs, the solely grass and slowly but beautifully they danced to my humming. I glanced around, long ago the radio stopped playing, the food is burnt. I looked at the movie trailer my family is looking at. A trailer, a trailer of talented people, typically perfect. I groaned loudly. I am not beautiful, nor am I smart. But, I will wait short with sad joy haunting me.

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