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Array
(
[sid] => 136980
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => (its kinda a short story acutally.) my angel:part 1
[time] => 2007-08-26 13:37:50
[hometext] => it is acutally a short story so dont turn back if you realize this though. i didnt really have inspiration i just started writing. read and tell me if you want more. there can be sequels.
[bodytext] => The rain beat the helpless ground outside as the old, overgrown willow sheltered me from the rains angry lashes. The aged man to my right was also too stubborn to walk home drenched. We both seemed to have nothing at all in common except for our adept ideas of hiding from the anger getting spit down outside. I had a scrapbook that I was flipping threw in my mind. It was always locked away in my mind and only I held the key to it in my heart. I remember an old picture of me and Jenna. We were sitting cross-legged under this same tree, when it was nearly three feet tall. We had cards strewn out between us and five or six fanned out in our hands. We were looking at each other. Jenna had her mouth open, like she was telling a good story or maybe only asking for a seven. I was looking at her. No expression on my face. I was just looking, as if trying to remember what I was doing there. I looked quite confused as if she was using a lot of big words that were hard to understand. The grass was golf course green behind us with the swings slowly moving in the background. It was like ghost children of our pasts were slowly watching us now, wondering how we survived what we went through. We probably wouldn’t have survived if it wasn’t for each other. Thinking of this I barely remembered the old man next to me, sharing our place; hiding with me from the world and what it could do to such defenseless girls. “…so what’s your story?” the old man’s raspy, thick voice penetrated my right ear. When I turned to face him I noticed that he was looking away from me, out at the rain. His face calm and solemn with his ears seeming open to anything I could toss out at him. I looked at him for a moment. He had crow’s feet that seemed to represent all the years of his life. All the laughs, smiles, pain, and tears that ever meant anything up to now. “Excuse me?” I asked him, not quite sure what his question was. “Your life; you’re here at this park alone. You’re holding a pen and have had that same look on your face for an hour. You can’t tell me you don’t have story.” The man’s words shocked me. I hadn’t kept track of how long I had been there but it had to be since early that afternoon. And he was right. I did have a story; one that hurt to talk about, but might be just what the old man was looking for. “Yes, I do have a story…” “Well, go ahead.” “Maybe some other time; you probably have a wife waiting for you at home with a warm dinner and open arms. My story will take awhile.” Just like the last time, the old man’s words alarmed me. “I have no one to go home to; no one to fix me dinner or open their arms to me. My story is also one that hurts, honey. I’m here to listen; for as long as it takes.” That made me think; should I tell him my story or should I not. One of three things could happen. He could not believe me and call an insane asylum. He could believe me and call a therapist office. Or he could understand and listen with empathy and an open heart. I decided to tell my story, not matter if he understood or not. I took out the old key in my heart and opened the dusty scrapbook. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 146 [topic] => 21 [informant] => thebrokenyouth [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Lifepoems )
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