未来

                I found the discussion about the Art Institute very interesting.  I had heard about the schools before, but had never got to know what sort of thing they did.  I figured that they did just classic art, such as painting or sculpting.  I didn’t know that they also were involved with digital art, photography, and film.  I was particularly interested in the art for video game design and the writing for video games.  I wasn’t aware that schools taught this sort of thing!  I might drabble in video game writing while in college, but I don’t think I would ever major or use it in a career.  But video game writing isn’t the same as normal writing, so what steps in video game writing differ from the norm?

                In one year, I would like to be graduated from high school, still working at my part time job, and be attending OTC on A+, and I want to continue to learn Japanese.  While in college, I want to study abroad for a year in Japan.  In five years, I would like to have graduated from college, and be working until I can find my desired job.  I would like to teach English in Isesaki, Japan, so I will be looking into jobs in that city.  In ten years, I want to be living in Isesaki, Japan, teaching English and continuing the Isesaki-Springfield relationship.  I also want to have at least a larger house instead of an apartment.  I also want so many dogs.  In fifty years, I want to still be living in Japan, still teaching and helping the Sister City relationship.  I’ll have so many dogs and a big house for my dogs.

Fashion Flame

 My body hit the ground with a harsh thud, sweat dripping off of my face and hitting the concrete.  My shirt was torn, my skirt, ripped, and my left high heel was missing.  I suppose one of them took it, or it just came off in the struggle.

 I lifted my head, and with my right hand, I wiped my face.  Blood.  My nose was bleeding.  I began to slightly freak out, as I was the most delicate of people; never been in a fight and tried to get along with everyone.  Although I had gotten into shouting arguments before, it never turned into something like this.  A small noise of panic escape my lips, and I felt my heart thrum in my chest.

                And they heard it, my sign of weakness, a sign that I was wavering.  One small sound of panic now, and soon they would have me where they wanted me; on my knees before them, crying and begging for mercy.  And I heard them, their mocking voices, hacking sounds as they spit on me, and shuffling dirt onto me. 

                There was more commotion, yelling and laughing, and then a weight fell on my back.  “You know, it was really hilarious to find out you was a fag.  I don’t know how it slipped past me, you can pass pretty well as a chick but then you had to open your fucking mouth,” I struggled underneath him, and he hit, no, punched me in the back of the head, rendering me disorientated. “And then everyone knows what you are.”

                I groaned and rested my head against the cold, unforgiving ground.  As I lay on the ground with a large man sitting on me, holding me down, there was even more laughter.  I yelped in pain as he grabbed my hair and pulled my head back, my vision becoming blurry and tears pricking the corners of my eyes.

                “How about you give you a haircut, fag.”  He pulled my hair back, tilting my head back even more.  And I saw them, surrounded by these men, taunting me, some laughing, some shouting angrily, and some watched on, faces indifferent.  I heard a swish, a sudden pull, and the sound of hair being cut. 

                “No, no, no, stop it! Stop it now!” I screamed, throat burning, neck burning, I screamed as loud as I could.  More laughing, more anger, more indifference.  No one cares.  No one helps.  No one helps until it’s too late.  I scream.  Head burning, neck burning eyes burning, voice burning, throat burning, anger burning.

Burning, burning, burning.

Burn in hell.

                I hear screams.  Screams of my torturers, screams of fear.  The weight was lifted from my back, as my captor scrambled away.  I opened my eyes to find a fire, raging and consuming, had sprouted around me.  The grass was in flames, and a nearby tree had caught fire.  I stood up, shaking uncontrollably.  Eyes watery, hair chopped it bits, I stood in the middle of this fire circle, with no way to escape.

I walked closer, arms wrapped around me to keep me safe, to the edge of the fire.  It almost seemed to… Bend my way.  I reached my hand out hesitantly, and it came to me, like how a loyal dog will greet its master.  I flinched away, but soon returned my hand, as the fire felt warm, but not unbearably hot as it should.  It came again, caressing my hand and arm like it loved me.  It was warm.  I smiled, sniffling a bit and wiping my face.

I put both of my arms in front of me, and separated them, as if someone was opening curtains.  The fire around me disappeared, completely fizzled out, but the air was still warm.  I smirked, nodding to myself, not understanding why or how this new power came to me, but I understood that it was a good asset to me now.

            Walking across the ash-ridden ground, one heel sinking slightly into the warm ground, the other bare food crunching on the burnt grass, I could see in the distance some of the remaining boys still hovering around the area, unsure of what to do.  Stay, and continue their pursuit?  Or run away with their tail between their legs?  Walking up to my lost heel and picking it up, I decided that revenge would lighten my mood.

Candy Apple

Wonderfully nice,
crunches so sweet in my mouth,
but only for Fall.

Color My Fuchsia Heart

Your love for me was too deep,
running your hand through my fuchsia hair, whispering to me,
"Happy Valentine's Day, my love."
The time had come; my love for you had died.
She came to us, wearing a lovely silken ribbon,
my love from past April had arrived.
I said goodbye for good, for I am in love with Alyssa.

Object of Inspiration

I think of my years, as slowly as they passed, seem to be as short as the summer. Such as the summer of my first hosting. I never know what it was like, to speak to a foreigner, who spoke bad English, just as I spoke bad Japanese.  But we managed, speaking slowly and in small sentences. Their names were Miyu and Sumire. They became my first friends outside of my home country. I showed them my home and culture, even feeding them biscuits and gravy, which I’m sure they didn’t like at all, although they told me they liked it. Accidentally giving them hot tea that was too sweet for them.

Showing them my room, which was covered wall to wall in anime posters, which I am now embarrassed that they have seen such a horror. I have grown since then, evening out my space with more traditional Japan. We watched a Disney movie, Tangled, and learned that Miyu likes Disney, so we had an unspoken connection, the one where girls can look at each other, and know exactly what the other was thinking.  Going bowling afterwards, with me being in first place for once, but against girls who never played before and could barely speak.

The day soon ended, and we went to the farewell party days later. We all cried. My face, paler than my new friends’, was bright red and splochy, eyes puffy and wet, I told them in my broken Japanese to not cry, and that we would see each other again. But not for a long time. After they left, we kept in touch. We would text each other a lot, catching each other when we were both awake. They would use Japanese, and I would try to catch up. But I improved the most out of all of us, learning new words every day. The years passed, and I collected more items from Japan. Items given to me from hosting, and those I bought myself, from my trip to Japan.

I had stayed with Sumire when I visited, and even got to see Miyu as well. In my room, years later from our first meeting, my room has gained more color. My lucky cat sits on my desk, paw waving back and forth continuously, my paper umbrella tucked away in a corner, the many Japanese books I bought sit on my bookshelf. But hung up on my book shelf, is the hat they gave me. That green hat that reads Yotsuba Gakuen, the words next to the signature four leaf green clover. That hat was the first piece of Isesaki for me. I would collect many more hats, signed by more and more people, making memories. But that specific hat will hang higher than the others, and I will remember the first day I met Miyu and Sumire.