White Massed Sky

24 02 2011

And old poem, from around 2005.

White Massed Sky

When I look to the sky,
I find my dreams, written in the clouds.
Lofty white masses
of water
Floating in the blueness.
A teddy bear!
He’s holding a lollipop,
A rabbit!
It has long, fuzzy ears.
I can almost see it twitching its nose.
A dog!
It looks content and strong.
A face!
It’s only a gun.

The gun shoots and I fall.
The fluffy white bullet strikes
my heart, and so many others,
while the clouds continue to float in the
blue sky.

Conversations With a Ghost

4 02 2010

The original short story which was then adapted into On the Bus, which was produced and filmed in my last term at Vancouver Film School.  (the video at the bottom)  There are clear differences between the short story and the film.  Which do you like better?

I wrote this story back in high school after a similar experience I had.  I won’t go into the details right now but if you’re wondering, I don’t converse with ghosts anymore.

Conversations With a Ghost

I sit there, dumbly, my mind pushing itself to think of an answer.  Who should I ask out?  I had only a few more days ’till the bet was up with my friend.

“You could ask me.”  I recognize that voice.  It’s him again, sitting across from me, wearing what I last saw him wear; a baseball cap turned backwards, a casual sweatshirt and jeans, topped off with glasses that actually make him look semi-smart.

“Why would I do that?”  My voice shows a possible foreshadowing of anger.

“Because you like me.  You’ve always liked me, since the moment you saw me.”  He smiles, which I interpret to be an evil smile, and tilts his head slightly to one side.

“Yeah, so what?  I’m scared.  I’m scared that you’ll reject me.  Why in hell would anyone want that?”  The anger is rising.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How?  What’s this based on?”

“On the fact that most times when I happen to see you in the halls, some slut is hanging off of you, like a dead animal.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.  We’re just friends.”

“Oh, I’ve heard that before.”

“Did you ever stop to think that it might be true?  Why would I lie to you?”

“Oh, I don’t know; because you keep breaking my heart, dammit!  You’re the only guy I haven’t ever really gotten over.”

“I’m sorry about that.  I can’t help that I’m so good looking.”

“Shut up.  That’s not helping.”

“What do you want me to say?  ‘Oh Jeremy, I’ve been in love with you too and I’ve been waiting 4 years for you to tell me!  Let’s get married and ride off into the sunset!'”  He laughs (loudly, I might add).  I silently fume to myself.

“You have no idea what it’s like when you see someone you love and know you won’t ever end up with them, but you still want them to be with you.  You have no idea how sad I am when I see you, the only boy I’ve ever really fallen in love with.  You just don’t get it do you?”  By this time, depression has replaced my rage.

He leans forward in his seat, closing the gap between our faces.  The complexion on his face is hard to read.  I expect him to say something comforting.

“Why are you doing this to yourself, Jeremy?  You say you like me and stuff but you’re too scared to talk to me because you’re afraid I’ll reject you.  What have you got to lose by talking to me?”

“Everything, including my life.”

“You know what the most pitiable part of this whole thing is?”  He leans back against the seat, his arm draped across the adjacent seat, trying to look laid-back.  I already know what he’s going to do and begin to brace for the worst.

“The saddest thing about this is that you have to make me up to talk to you.  I’m part of your stupid little fantasy.  You make me say whatever you want to make you feel better…

“Shut up.  Stop it now.”

“…and it works, yet when the real me comes strolling along, you might as well have jumped in a ditch or something…

“Shut up right now.  I mean it, Sean.”

“…because you’re just too shy to talk to me.  Now that is just sad.”

“You don’t know me.  You don’t know me!”

“Oh, I know you alright.  But do you wanna know something really pathetic?”

At this point, I can’t even talk anymore.

“No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you are never ever going to get over me.  Never.”  He smiles that evil smile again.  I hate that one.

I’ve had enough of this charade.

“Stop it!  Go away!  Leave me alone!”  I shut my eyes tightly.

For a few seconds, I don’t hear anymore from him.  When I open my eyes, a fat woman in an ugly pink muumuu is sitting in his seat.  I can feel her studying me, which makes me feel like a lab rat.

“Are you okay, dearie?”  She pulls out a small tissue from her matching ugly purse.  It is not until now that I feel the warm streaks of tears on my face.  I had been crying, during my own fantasy where I was in control, or at least thought I was.

I tell her I am fine and take the delicate paper from her to wipe my eyes.

“I remember when I was in high school, so many memories…” her voice continues.

Stop talking to me!  And get some new clothes while you’re at it! my mind screams.

“…and bad ones, too.  I don’t think I’ll ever get over those ones…”

I glance up at her, my entire body in shock.  Her face slowly morphs into Sean’s as they both finish the last word simultaneously: “Never.”


19 01 2010

A short story I wrote back in high school, part of New Shoots, a creative writing program run throughout high schools in Vancouver.


My feet splash in the puddles as I run.  I cannot believe what had just happened; me seeing my boyfriend with someone else.  And it wasn’t just hanging out; it was full fledged flirting and kissing!  Kissing dammit!!  I run to the place where I just sit and think about things; my hiding place, if you will.  Unlike most people, my place isn’t some pile of rocks in a forest or a quiet library or something.  In fact, you’d probably think I was some kind of weirdo.  It’s a cemetery.

My cemetery isn’t all that far away; it’s only a few blocks from my house.  Since it’s raining, I’m getting completely drenched.  My shoes are basically filled with water and my clothes seem as if they had just come out of the washer.  But I keep running until I see the welcoming gates.  In a way, it is quite sad to be amongst rotted and decayed corpses buried beneath the earth, but it also makes me realize how fortunate I am to be alive.  When I come in, I slow my pace down to a walk.  I stroll past the familiar tombstones that I see every time:  Williams, Tennant, the Shatfords.  The few trees provide an added kind of mystery towards this place by casting acute shadows on the grass.  I hear the “cawing” of nearby crows.

As usual, the cemetery is deserted.  No one comes in all that often, except for me and the odd visitor that’s actually paying respect for the dead.  A lot of people, however, use the cemetery as a shortcut to the other side, which I find really ignorant.  But they’ll learn that someday, they will be in that cemetery permanently.

I continue walking past my favourite row of headstones on a paved path; I keep imagining that when I walk down this path, the ghosts and spirits of these people are there, to comfort me, sort of like when the bride walks down the aisle in a wedding and everyone in the seats are staring at her, only I picture ghosts.  They are dressed in olden days clothing; the men tipping their hats to me and the women wearing frilly dresses with giant flowery hats.  I can see them smiling at me and telling me how wonderful it is to see me again.  But not this time.  I’m so distressed that I can’t picture all these people.  Besides, it’s raining and I’d probably have to picture them all wet too.

Eventually, I reach a tree in the exact middle of the graveyard.  It’s extremely tall with huge outreaching branches that provide shade–and in this case–shelter from the rain.  I sit down at the base and put my hands in my face; if I loved Sean so much, why did he have to go after someone else?  What was I to do now?  It was just all too confusing to me.  Instead, I did what I did best: cry.

I woke up with the sun in my eyes.  Was I sleeping?  For how long?  I looked around me.  Everything seemed so calm, so quiet.  I remember that the last thing I thought about was Sean.  Well, it was time I moved on anyways.  I get up and brush myself off, even though the twigs and leaves stick to my wet clothing.  I walk down the same path until I reach the gates.  Whenever I leave the cemetery, the childish part of me thinks that my ghost friends are sad that I’m gone and that they’re looking forward to seeing me next time.  But the real part of me knows that death is inevitable; we all die sooner or later, it really is just a matter of time.  The dead don’t care if you bring them flowers, if you mention them or if you honour them after they’ve passed away because they’re dead; they can’t do anything about it.  We’re just reminding ourselves that other one of us isn’t living and that soon, we will be joining them.