marawritingstuff

[marawritingstuff]

Negan’s Journey. Part 1

The woods covered Negan’s neck, adding to his irritation.   The last time he viewed Sheridan road the dead covered it.   Negan hated the woods.   Give him a nice hotel with room service and an indoor pool.   He and Lucille had honeymooned at a beautiful one in Honolulu.  Lucille... A month had passed, but nothing had changed.   How could he go on...

Branches snapped behind him.   Negan tapped the top of the bat cradled in his right hand.  Flashes of the men killed a month prior filled his head.   Men...no motherfucking animals.   Swerving his head, Negan spotted twelve of the dead heading from the North and six or so coming from the East.   A bridge stood to the South.   A bridge out of the county.  A bridge out of this life.

A two hours hike brought Negan to the bridge’s road.   The smell hit him before the sight or sounds.   It reminded him of the time Pop forgot to put ice in the cooler on the Fourth of July.  Damn, those hamburgers stunk like shit by the end of the day.  

Sure enough, a group of about fifty of the dead lumbered on the street.   Negan ducked behind a tree.  They had not noticed him, or smelled him apparently.  Negan nestled down in the forest ground and watched the mob.   Though lumbering slowly, the group seemed to be heading back into the county.  The wait and see game began.

As the sun went down,  the pack had thinned out, four of the remaining dead aimlessly paced back and forth.   Negan breathed in deeply.  He moved his bat from one hand to another.  Closing his eye, his lip came up to an almost inhuman snarl.

Negan stomped up to the four dead.  The first was a skinny man, a blue T-shirt.   The second, also a male, wore a bowling shirt, with the name “AL” stitched on the front. A naked third male on the far side of the road growled loudly as Negan appeared.  The final member of the group, a female missing her arm and part of her upper jaw, reached Negan first.

With a quick swing of his bat, Negan connected with her head sending her flying.  On the back swing, the wires of the bat caught Al in the shoulder.   Swinging Al around Negan hit the naked man sending him to the ground.  

Negan pressed Al to the ground.   The other three of the dead were struggling up.  Negan smashed Al’s head with his bat and repeated the action with the remaining thing.  

Blood splattered over his face, Negan stood over the blue shirted dead...creature...but his Lucille.   The snarl returned to his face.  He picked up the bat and smashed the head of the blue shirted Dead creature over and over again until there was nothing left but a stain in the pavement.

Negan stared at the dead...Lucille...he dropped to the ground and cried his final tears.

[marawritingstuff]

ASHES

Gwen twisted her finger in her short black hair.  Normally, she loved the 500-mile drive from St. Louis to Detroit, the fields filled with horses and cows. Except on holidays, few cars cluttered the highway until she got close to the city.  She cherished her visits to her Aunt Ann with her oversized sweaters and non-stop cups of tea.    Aunt Ann wasn’t her destination today.

           Four hours on the road signaled the half-way point.   She pulled her rusty Camry into a rest stop.   Time to get, yuk, vending machine burning coffee to keep her awake for the rest of the ride.    Gwen even missed her boring job of entering columns of useless data, anything but visiting someone she was supposed to call “father.”   She downed the rest of her coffee and made her way back to the car.

           It had been more than twenty years since she had seen her father, and that was merely a glance across the room at her cousin’s graduation.    The situation was a dire one now.   The diagnosis of Stage IV lung cancer left only one outcome.   He squandered his life on two or maybe three packs of cigarettes a day.    Was it the guilt from what he did?   No, Gwen thought to herself, the man she knew felt no guilt.

           Dang.  She almost missed her exit.   Bringing her thoughts back to the present, she turned off the interstate and made her way to the medical center.   Due to all the problems with Aunt Ann, she was very familiar with Henry Ford Hospital, so it didn’t take her long to find the information desk and the bored volunteer behind it.

           “What room is James Harper in, please,” Gwen inquired.

           “OH! Are you family?”

           “Yes, I’m his daughter,” Gwen said, sighing to herself.

“He is in intensive care, room 201,” the flustered volunteer proclaimed.  “You will

need to stop at the desk at the ICU to gain access.  Do you need directions, I can . . .”?

           “No, I know my way,” Gwen said, already making her way down the hallway.

As instructed, Gwen checked in at the ICU and strolled to her father’s room.  She felt like covering her nose from the antiseptic smell of the hospital but thought twice.

           As she entered the room, she saw a thin figure laying on the bed hooked up to five or six machines. She supposed the purpose was to keep him alive.  She stifled a laugh when she caught sight of the thin frame in the bed, never remembering him under 300 lbs.  Though it disgusted her, Gwen sat in the chair next to her father.

           Within minutes, a nurse came bounding in.

           “Ms. Harper?”

           “Yes.”

           “A doctor will be in to speak with you in a few minutes,” she said, her body shaking at every word.   If the staff only knew how she really felt.

           “Thank you.”

           She continued to look at her father.   She wondered if he could hear her.  The relevancy was immaterial.   There were no more chances for confrontations.

           “O.k., asshole, the time has come. Forty-years later for you to pay.  No last rites for you. I may have only been five, but I know everything that happened that day.”

Gwen was transported back to her five-year-old self. On that snow bound day when

everything changed.  Six feet of oppressive snow trapped Gwen’s family in their tiny three

bedroom home.  The portrait of her family was the usual one; nine-year-old brother Luke watching tv, Dad eating a sandwich on the couch, mom outside working, and Gwen in the corner trying not to make noise.  Hours passed when Mom came in, tears streaming down her face.

           “What’s wrong with you,” Gwen’s father bellowed, his face scrunched up.

           “I can’t shovel anymore.  My back and my hands hurt so much.”

           “The driveway isn’t uncovered yet.”

           Gwen’s mom started to ball.   Gwen didn’t think she would ever stop.

           “Fine.   Give me that stupid shovel and I’ll do it myself.”

           Gwen’s father stomped out of the house.   Luke and Gwen ran to the window waiting for the emanate eruption.      As her father started shoveling, Gwen noticed a strange black figure coming down from the sky.  

           “Luke do you see,” pointing to the figure.

           “Stop making up stuff again, stupid head.”

           This was not the first time Gwen had seen things that others had not. Before she had time to consider the figure further, her mother let out an ear-piercing screech.  Their gaze turned to their father, now laying on the hard ice.  None of them wasted time getting to his side.

           The deep groaning.  Their mother’s scream. Her brother’s crying. These would be imprinted on Gwen’s memory forever.  But above all was the black figure descending upon them.   As it came closer Gwen recognized the shaped as a coal black angel, with wings spanning twice the size of the already seven-foot body.

           “I need to speak to your father, little one, “it said to Gwen, in a voice that shook the child.

           “I’m too scared.”

           “Shut up Gwen, we are all scared,” her mother screeched.

           “I’m talking to the black angel.  He wants to talk to Dad.”

           “Not your stupidness, now,” her mother said, tears running like a river.

           Gwen’s father’s eyes grew large.  It was then that Gwen knew he could see the angel, too.  

           “YOU’RE DEATH AREN’T YOU,” he cried.

           The black angel looked at Gwen and repeated:

           “He can’t hear me.  You have to talk for me.”

           “WHAT, I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” Gwen’s father squealed again.

           “I can hear him, Dad,” Gwen said, shaking, waiting for her father’s response.

           “Well, tell me fool.”

           “You are going to die now.”

           Gwen repeated the angel’s words and her father burst out in tears.

           “But you can sacrifice two for one.”

           Gwen tried her best to repeat again, though she didn’t understand the word “sacrifice.”     “I don’t understand,” her father said through the tears.

           “Choose two to take your place.”

           Gwen barely finished when her father began to shout out.

           “Take the girl and my wife.”

           Her mother, who had thought her husband was hallucinating, jumped in.

           “Take me where,” she began to ask.

           However, before she finished her thought, the angel swiped her mother into his large black wings and held her tight on one side.

           The angel reached for Gwen.

           “I never wanted that stupid child anyway,” her father said.

           “Do you truly want to make a sacrifice,” the angel said, and Gwen repeated.

           “YES.  YES,” My father shouted.

           The angel turned away from Gwen and swiped up her brother in its other wing.

           “What are you doing, take the girl,” her father shouted.

           “Only something you care about can be a sacrifice.”

           Gwen repeated to her father.

           Before he could say anything more, the angel closed his wings, and what once was Gwen’s mother and brother turned into ashes.  The black angel skyrocketed into the air, back where it came from.

           My father got unto his knees.  Perfectly fine but sobbing uncontrollably.  

           “My boy, it took my boy, and left me the little bitch.”

           The story simply became that Luke and her mother were lost in the storm.   For some reason, the police never really questioned the ludicrous explanation.   It became apparent that her father had no interest in taking care of Gwen and she spent the rest of her juvenile years living with aunt Ann.

             Now she was here, watching him die.  

           “Help me,” he whimpered.

           “Help you what,” Gwen asked.

           Gwen turned her head to the end of the bed already knowing what she would find. The black angel.

           “Hello, old friend,” Gwen whispered.

           This time she only got a nod.

           “Sorry, old man, there is no help for you this time.”

           Gwen slunk back into the chair and waited.  And waited.  Deep into the night, an unidentified doctor came in and told her some sob story about them doing “everything possible.”  

           Then it happened.   He began gagging.  All the machines seemed to go quiet.   The nurses came in, giving their apologies.   Then asking what she wanted to do with her “father.”

           “Burn it,” Gwen declared, winking her eye at the soaring Black Angel.

[marawritingstuff]

iii. He lies sleeping next to you, hair messy, body relaxed. You watch the slow rise and fall of his chest, counting the beats in between. Dust settles in the air and you watch it drizzling through the glimmer of white light that shines through the blinds. You want to reach out and touch him but you stop mid-movement. Instead, you touch him with your eyes. Cheeks, nose, collarbone, lips. The air around him tastes like summer. You want to drown in it.

v. His hand is in your hand and your hand is in his and his lips are on yours and your lips are on his and his fingers touch your skin and yours touch his shoulders and-

i. There’s half a carton of milk leftover from breakfast on the table. You reach out and take it, drinking it straight from the carton. He scowls at you and takes a glass from one of his cupboards. His hand reaches out, but stops. You wait for the touch to burn you. It doesn’t.

iv. “Maybe we are codependent,” he says, drawing lines on your arm until they are left red. Your rib cage cracks from the sheer pressure of your pounding heart.  “Then I am yours,” you simply say, “Today, tomorrow, always.”

ii. “I do want you,“ you say to him one night, voice shaking. “I want you so much it paralyzes me.”

vi. There’s half a carton of orange juice leftover from breakfast on the table. You reach out and take it, drinking it straight out of the carton. He scowls at you and takes a glass from one of his cupboards. His hand reaches out and touches your neck, then tugs you closer for a quick kiss. You smile, lethally blinding.

[marawritingstuff]

Liberals/progressives make the best anti-leftist/anti-revolutionary propaganda through film and series, because instead of them portraying a leftist as this obvious, unambiguous evil, they will humanize them. They do this by portraying them as well intentioned, or partly, at least, and show other likable qualities we can admire or empathize with, but then call them "misguided," "naive," and "dangerous," and say that their means don't justify the ends. The latter being something they successfully do usually by having a charismatic leftist leader slowly reveal themselves to be recklessly sacrificial, or bloodthirsty and egotistical. Their point being to try to convey revolution as something derived ultimately from fanaticism or militant tribalism, and to try to push that reform is the middle ground between complacency and revolution; and that we should stick with the devil we know: capitalism, and try to reform it. All so we can keep this ongoing cycle of capitalism regulating and deregulating itself, with endless war, and endless exploitation, until the very rich rule over a completely dystopian Earth that is no longer even habitable for the majority of us.

[marawritingstuff]

I would leave my footprints in your sand. I would make the desert flower and plant rivers in the dunes of your pillow. I would make your constellations a pendant where I would hide my name and memory so that whenever you looked at the sky, I would fill your eyes. I would walk with the dawn and tread so softly your fears would fall asleep long enough for your hopes to awaken and I would hold them in my arms and give them wings so they could fill every corner of your heart with peace and serenity. 

e.v.e.

[marawritingstuff]

SUNSHINE

Finally, I would like to thank my fellow classmates.  I wouldn’t be here today if it wasn’t for you.

Valedictorian speech written.   Come on, Amelia, no sleeping.   Time to write the memoriam.   Everybody would have completely forgotten about Sunshine, aka Jennifer, if those idiots stopped talking about weird stuff.

On this day as the Class of 2008 celebrates our graduation, our Sunshine isn’t here.   Jennifer Halloway sadly took her life seven months ago.  

Couldn’t someone else give this speech? Heaven knows, we weren’t friends. Sunshine didn’t have any friends. I didn’t even know her!  Well, maybe a little bit.

Sunshine always lit up a room with her distinctive style.  She brought laughter wherever she went.

My first encounter with Sunshine occurred the first day of fifth grade.  Jennifer stumbled through the homeroom door dressed in a jumper that was falling apart at the seams with a sun patch centered slightly below her large breasts.  The tall, overweight girl, with a haircut that even a discount barber wouldn’t admit to, clutched her books closely to her chest.  As a chorus of “You are My Sunshine” sprang from the mouths of a group of students near the back, a storm of spitballs flew through the air.  Sunshine didn’t even look up amid the commotion but headed to a corner desk at the far side of the classroom. A wave of sympathy overcame me, and I began to get up to greet her, only to be met by Susie, my best friend’s hand. I looked at my friends.  Some were laughing while others had wrinkled up their faces as if Sunshine had a communicable disease that could be passed through the air by her mere presence.  There is not much I can say now.  Then I was a ten-year-old girl who wanted to be liked so I wrote off Sunshine’s life, joining in my friends’ laughter and jeers that would last for nearly seven more years.

Her intelligence and compassion did not go unnoticed by teachers and fellow students.

Sunshine remained on the periphery of my universe.   We were both smart, extremely smart.  Advanced placement classes cluttered our schedules; at least for a while, but she lacked the social graces to stay amongst the “gifted.”  Group projects were the new fad in education.   My peers pretended to let Sunshine be part of the group during class, but everyone knew the real discussions, work, and fun happened afterschool. Nobody ever told her where the meetups were happening.  When it came to the division of work, the group inevitably responded: Jennifer refused to help.    Some of the teachers would try to elicit a defense from Sunshine, but she remained silent.   I guess she never got over the fear instilled in her in elementary school.  Supposedly, she told on some bullies for calling her “Cabbage Patch Kid” and they slammed her in the mud and kicked her bad.  Of course, there were some teachers who were just as ruthless as the students.  I heard Ms. Reardon, the sixth-grade science teacher, tell her that despite her intelligence, social problems meant that she would never succeed in life and Mr. Pearson, the seventh-grade English teacher, said someone as poor as her shouldn’t have hope. I wish I could say that I acted differently, that I tried to include her, but I didn’t. By the time we reached high school, the group project grades had dropped her out of my academic circle.   However, the continued bullying kept Sunshine burning bright in my orbit.

Jennifer’s grace was an example to us all.

The whole cheerleading squad threw me a welcome party the day before my freshman year began.  They even brought me the cutest outfit and a junior offered me a ride. At 7: 15 a.m., she pulled into the driveway in her clunker.   Fifteen minutes later we screeched into the parking lot, just as the buses were pulling in.  The unmistakable sound filled my ears.  “You Are My Sunshine.”   Mud balls flew knocking Jennifer from the stairs of the bus onto the concrete.   She pulled herself up dredging her splattered sunshine jumpsuit with her.  As she stepped through the entrance doors, Sunshine disappeared from my mind again.

Though she wasn’t one of the more outgoing students, she was beloved by everyone.

That first year our paths didn’t cross much as our classes were clearly different now and extra-curricular activities weren’t her thing.  At times, I would hear calls of “fatso”, “creepy”, and “not so little Orphan Annie” coming from the halls, and witness Sunshine being thrown into lockers.  At lunch she sat alone, while some kids threw food at her and most...okay, all…of us just sneered.   Gossip went around that her grandmother, her sole living relative, got cancer and the water in her house was turned off.      Her hygiene suffered, ostracizing her even more.  One morning I really had to pee, so reluctantly ran to the gross bathroom on the first floor. That giant jumpsuit was in a sink with Sunshine scrubbing it with a bar of soap. Laughter exploded from me.  She just stood there scrubbing…I am sorry I did that now.

I, for one, enjoyed Jennifer’s contributions in the classroom.

A language class was required for all students and, unfortunately, I lacked any skills in this area, so this meant mixing with all the other sophomores. As I walked into class, I noticed the name cards carefully placed on the desks. Señora Amelia Brantley.  Cute.  Assigned Seating.  I scanned the desks.  Señora Jennifer Halloway right next to Señor Harry Hankel, the quarterback, who later became captain of the football team, a notorious bully. Everyone thought Harry would make it to the NFL someday bringing fame, and money, to our school. Thus, his pranks were largely ignored, especially by the popular teachers, like Ms. Garcia. Throughout the semester, every time Ms. Garcia turned her back, he would take hold of Sunshine’s desk and throw it into the wall leaving her reeling. Ms. Garcia refused to discipline Harry, instead admonishing Sunshine for moving her seat.  The worst day came on Cinco De Mayo.   There was a buffet of Mexican delights contributed by the students and Ms. Garcia.  A decorated piñata hung from the ceiling.  At the end of class, Ms. Garcia had us start a Conga line.   When Sunshine tried to join in, no one would touch her back.  They called her a dirty pig and made oinking sounds. Rather than discipline the class, Ms. Garcia simply broke up the line and we went back to the Cinco De Mayo feast. Sunshine went to the back corner of the room, sat down on the floor, and for the first time ever, I saw her cry.   That was the beginning of the end, even though I neither knew nor took any steps to stop it.

She was the picture-perfect student.

To be honest, SAT’s, college applications, and maintaining my 4.0 kept me too busy after that to think much about Sunshine.  I jumped on the chance to assist with developing the year-book pictures, not only since it would add another line to my Ivy League applications, but also because I loved watching the blobs slowly transform into images of happy people.  Cheerleaders forming pyramids.  Football players making touchdowns.  Even Susie’s mug, now a beautiful young lady, smiling at the Junior Fall Dance.    After school one day, I stirred the solution as the last picture appeared.  My arm grew limp as the picture came in focus. Sunshine was sitting in the corner of the gym at a pep-rally, all alone, grasping her knees.  She looked so miserable, like a puppy that had been hit too many times.   Gently, I moved the image towards the trash when the Senior Editor came in and stopped me, laughing and pronouncing that this would be a highlight. I didn’t say anything.   The centerfold of the yearbook was Sunshine’s picture with the caption, “You are the light of our school.”

As we are here to celebrate our own accomplishments, I know the Senior Class wishes they could throw Jennifer a ceremony that could honor her alone.

Unlike my freshman year, I walked through the school doors on the first day of my senior year with confidence and pride; head of the cheerleading squad, member of the student council, editor of the yearbook and a shoo-in for valedictorian.   Frankly, this was just a distraction from the wait on the responses of the Ivy League schools. December was the traditional month that early applicants received an acceptance…or rejection. August. September, November, were all a blur.

December 12th, I arrived home and opened my inbox:

NEW MAIL

HARVARD:   APPLICATION STATUS

SUSIE:    SPECIAL CEREMONY FOR SUNSHINE, DAWN

Clicking the attachment of the first message, my hands shook uncomfortably. The Harvard Crest sat cleanly at the top of the letterhead.  My eyes scanned the document.

“Congratulations.  You have been accepted into the incoming Class of the Fall Semester of 2008.”

The next few hours were a haze.  Screams and tears.  My mother hugging me.   Calling Susie.  It all seems like a huge mess of emotions now.   Later that night, Susie called to remind me that she was picking me up at 6:00 a.m. for the ceremony.  The excitement of the day had overwhelmed me.  I assumed it was another award for one of the teachers.  The second e-mail remained on my computer unopened as I dreamed of Harvard crimson sweatshirts.

The alarm rang all too soon, I threw on a hoodie and my Northface winter jacket and lumbered down to Susie’s car.  The window made a perfectly good pillow and blocked out most of her jabbering. Later, I learned that Susie was explaining that Sunshine’s grandmother had been missing for a few days.  One of the idiots from the football team called Sunshine impersonating the police luring her to the flagpole in front of the school, our destination, with a promise of information regarding her grandmother.  If I had only listened to Susie.  Or opened the e-mail.  Or done…anything.  

Susie screeched to a stop a few blocks from the school where several other cars loaded with seniors had assembled.  I struggled from the car, joining a group of twenty-five in a steady creep.  As we came over the hill, I could see Sunshine standing beside the flagpole in her old, scantly patched coat, shivering in the cold.  She kicked the snow around her, weakly mouthing, “where are you Grandma.”  The group pounced on her. Harry Hankel seized her by the arms forcing her to face the flagpole.  From under the snow, two other blindsiders began to pull ropes causing a pair of bloomers and a bra to ascend. The sunshine patches left no doubt of the owner, though I had no idea where the mob had obtained her private items.  The group broke out into a chorus of “You are My Sunshine” as they blasted her with ice balls, several striking her square in her mouth causing teeth to be knocked fully out.   Seconds seemed liked hours until someone opened the front doors of the school.   Everyone scattered.   I stood there for a second watching Sunshine lie there on the ground.  Blood dripped from her mouth staining the snow. Susie pulled me by the arm, and I turned away.  This would be my last view of Sunshine.

I wish I had a chance to know her more personally.

The incident occurred one week before the holiday break.  Sunshine didn’t make an appearance in school that week.     Holiday cheer soon made me forget the horrible event as my family overwhelmed me with gifts of Harvard paraphernalia: sweatshirts, mugs, anything you could imagine.   When I finally stepped back on the grounds of the school, I shivered. My eyes turned up to the flagpole resting on a shadowy image of one of Sunshine’s patches waving.    Susie dismissed it as an illusion due to stress.  Only a few hours into class, the principal called us all for an assembly in the auditorium.   Despite my heavy sweater, I hugged myself tightly trying to keep warm.  Mr. Lumbre, our principal, stepped on the stage, but I could barely see him despite all the theater lights.  A shadow seemed to be engulfing him.  

“Jennifer Halloway took her own life on New Year’s Day.  She is survived by her grandmother.  Funeral arrangements will be announced.  Grief counselors will be made available in the main office.  School is dismissed for the day to allow time for mourning and processing.”

The senior class sat still. I don’t know what they were feeling, all I know is no one said a word.

We really didn’t have the opportunity to say a proper good-bye.  However, even after she was gone, Jennifer still seemed to be with us somehow.

No sunshine came through the clouds the day they put her in the ground.  Only her grandmother and the church pastor watched as the casket descended into the earth.  I sat in Susie’s car staring.  I read in the newspaper that Sunshine had shot herself with her grandfather’s old gun. Her grandmother, finally recovering from a bout of dementia, returned to find her in the garage a few days later. Some of the other seniors said they were going to come to the funeral.  Susie backed out but let me take the car.   Only the hearse and the pastor’s beat up Chevy kept me company in the cemetery parking lot.  I couldn’t bring myself to get out and drove away in perceived silence, though I thought I heard the faint sound of Nat King Cole’s “When Shadow’s Fall.”

The grief counselors only stayed a few days as no one sought their services. Sunshine never left.   No matter how hard I tried to avoid it, every morning the sunshine shadow enveloped me as I crossed under the flagpole.  As the temperatures rose outside the school, they fell within.  The furnace was replaced, but the temperature didn’t rise a degree. They tore apart the ductwork, vents, and changed all the thermostats.   Nothing worked.   Soon things…well…they started getting scary. Senior girls were randomly being thrown into lockers.  Books flew from students’ arms.  The darkness and “When Shadow’s Fall” were everywhere. Most of the students, and staff, for that matter, were unfamiliar with the song.  My grandmother adored Nat King Cole.   Though I used to love hearing that smooth baritone, I shivered as it creeped from every Ipod, car stereo, and even the PA system.  No other music has been heard in the school since Sunshine’s death.  

I walked into a biology class one day on a mission to deliver notices of the upcoming teacher and student council cooperative meeting.  There sat Harry Hankel snoring away as a film on protozoa projected over him. I stared at him and sighed, sick of the whole damn school. To my shock, an invisible force picked up his desk and relentlessly banged him back and forth into the wall.   I saw nothing touch him but some in the class maintain that a sunshine shaped shadow passed over the film screen before the accident.  Harry’s dreams, and the school’s dreams, were over.  The doctors were unable to repair the damage in his right leg.  He will never play football again.

We wish she could have partaken in the many happy activities of Senior year that are captured forever in our memories.

The final grade announcements confirmed my valedictorian status.  I wanted to drop it all and drive off to Massachusetts, never to look back.  However, the yearbook distribution had to be done.  On the penultimate day of school for the seniors, I walked into the student council office and watched my junior editor sliding receipts into each book. She abruptly stopped, something seeming to catch her eye.  Flipping open the book, she let out a shriek and bolted from the office.  Drifting over to her workplace, the pages of the yearbook flipped back in the constant cool breeze that pervaded the office. I covered my mouth in horror, looking down at the faces, or lack of faces, of the senior class.  Susie should have been smiling back at me.  Instead, there was a black spot in the shape of a sunshine. Book after book, page after page, the same.  Black blotches smeared out any faces of seniors.  Slumping down in a chair, I began to cry.  I wasn’t sure then, or even now, who or what I was crying about. Was it for our lost happy year? Was it for the loss of my hard work? Or was it finally for Sunshine?

We are all sorry for the tragedy that befell Jennifer.  I can only hope that Sunshine can find the peace she was seeking.  Goodbye Jennifer.  

There will be no yearbooks to sign this year.  Mr. Lumbre cancelled the prom.  No one objected.  Soon there will be parents wishing many of us well as we head off to our respective colleges and universities.   The question is will Sunshine be with us?  Will she stay at the school?  I don’t know the answer to that.   I do know that she is here now as I type these words, shivering, in the dark, a sunshine shaped shadow looming over me.

I…am…. sorry….