I'm Sorry

I thought about you for a long, long time. And I listened to Ceremony, And I cried again. Your voice rising and falling like waves of sound or stars out in deep space, Echoing off into unknown heights, bodies, and oceans. Ian I’m really sorry I cried again, I just get lonely without you.

Goodnight, Mr. Bradbury.
Goodnight,
Goodnight,
Goodnight.

Making My Own Fight Club

Margaret Middlebrooks Draft 3 Making My Own Fight Club There is something horribly wrong and beautiful about punching someone in the face. Maybe its that cliché of the skin on skin, bone on bone, knuckle to knuckle feeling. The electricity and power that builds up in your fist and is suddenly sent, hurdling off into another person’s orbit. Whatever the reason, it’s a primal craving that humans, animals, have had since the beginning of time. I know there is never a ‘good’ reason to hit someone. Its, in an ideal society, unacceptable but it still goes on, most just turning a blind eye. I believe that we all want that sort of violence, a sort of harsh physicality to shake up and bring some chaos into our ordered life’s. It’s human nature. If we remembered that then there would be less violence in the world. I’ve never considered myself a fighter. Sure, I’m pretty rebellious when it comes to authority but its more verbal than anything else. I could think about hitting someone all the time, but never actually go through with it. I even told myself that. But then middle school happened. Middle school age is a rough time on everyone. Everything changes, it feels like, for no reason at all. It changes so fast that I hardly had time to catch up. So I got angry at the world. I needed to lash out. Everything was bottled up inside of me; all that anger and fear. It was only a matter of time before I would explode. There was a kid who used to jeer at me and point and laugh. One day, he got really close to me on my walk home. Back then, I considered twenty feet away ‘too close.’ He was laughing and calling me a cutter, seeing that I had marks on my arms. I remember turning to him, slowly, glaring in his face. At this point, my hand had magically turned into a fist and it ‘accidently’ went flying straight into his jaw. He fell to the ground, bleeding. His blood was on my hand. He called me a few names and ran away, never to bother me again. I remember going home to an empty house that day. My mom was out of town. I sat on the couch the rest of the day, looking at this other person’s blood in grim fascination of what I had just done. It felt like Fight Club. I was Jack’s Smirking Revenge. And what’s the first rule about Fight Club? You don’t talk about it. I didn’t. I never said anything about. I never said how good it felt. I just washed my hands and went on with my day. Looking back on it now, I regret it. I wish I knew where he was now. I’d tell him I was sorry and explain to him that “You’ve met me at a very strange time in my life.”