All the important people are buzzing around under a gray, cold and dreary sky downtown, in the heart of evil, where everyone wears at least four different faces in their eight-hour shifts. The first is to con their equally miserable co-workers, in which they hate. Sometimes they silently pray for each others’ suicide or murder. […]
The scent of dry-erase marker was one she’d been certain she would never smell again. Yet there it was, pungent smell permeating the quaint little classroom with its sunny windows and dark wood desks lined up neat grid lines. It was a strange thing to notice, but it felt safe in a way the dozens of eyes on her did not. The dull whispers of conversation echoed almost too loudly against her nervous ears. Having grown accustomed to a certain volume from the nurses and even more so the single voice of her father, the cacophony of sound – no matter how soft – unnerved her.
“Class, I have someone very special for ya’ll to meet,” Mrs. Shipman, her new homeroom and English teacher, brought attention to her presence. Tension rose as they realized that confronting them now was the elusive occupant of the old blue house at the end of Maple Street. “This is Ayida Jean-Baptiste, our newest student.”
Ayida kept her head low, face obscured by white hood.
“Go on dear,” The teacher encouraged, a touch impatient and inappropriately eager. “Don’t be shy.”
Shy wasn’t the word and the encouragement did nothing for the tremble in her fingers. The threat of the gazes in the room wasn’t the reason she clenched the brim of her hood. The initial shock associated with disgust – and more often pity – was a prevalent occurrence since her convalescence in the hospital. It was nothing to get worked up over much less make her hesitant. The color of her anxiety was ending all chances of interaction by revealing her face. However, what else could be done other than lower her hood and let the light show them what had been hiding in their town.
Disfigurement distorted the right side of her face in the form of a long rugged scar from hairline to swell of cheek, interrupted by her damaged eye where lid drooped heavily over blown pupil. Devoid of Life, the matte gray hue gave the appearance of fish eye in opposition to her expressive frost gray one. Nothing but a miracle had kept sight in it. Across this long scar was a separate, smoother line of raised skin. The stiches had managed to dose this long split of her mouth making the scar trail from the corner of lips to the apple of cheek like a Glasgow smile. Mahogany flesh was mottled down her neck, hinting at unseen damage beneath soft yellow blouse. The only saving grace was the abundance of thick sable spirals about her shoulders and face. The ringlets could not cover the imperfections, but they offered a more positive juxtaposition that made her just a bit easier to look at.
Of course, the reveal delayed verbal reaction from the other students as they stared and gave Ayida a moment to take them all in. The furrow of brows, curling of lips, widening of eyes in varying expressions, and slight leaning away of some gave much away as to the climate of the room, but it didn’t prove to be positive. As she let her fingers slide away from the lapels of her jacket, she wet her lips and pressed her teeth into the flesh of it.
Remember. This isn’t about you.
“My name is Ayida Jean-Baptiste.” Pause. Breath. Careful with the lisp. “I got into a really bad accident last year when I first moved to Calista. That’s why I look like this.”
“Go on dear, it’s okay.”
No its not. “It’s uh, nice to meet you all finally and—”
“….face is effed up!”
“What’s up with your eye?”
“She look like leatherhead…”
Mrs. Shipman glared and struck her desk to silence the building giggles and uncouth questions. “That’s enough! If you don’t have anything nice to ask her, keep your mouth shut!”
A few scoffs and snickers remained.
Ayida looked up at the frustrated woman. “I can just sit down.”
“Oh…of course dear. Let’s find you a seat,” she said flashing a sympathetic smile that was not returned.
-Harli V. Park –
Thank you for reading today. If you liked please leave a comment or share. All criticism is welcomed and I really appreciate you taking the time. I will do more of these soon so if you want to stay updated on progress as I go, feel free to follow all of my social media:
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So let’s talk about this right here… and why I think its beautiful
This series is one of the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen and everything I ever wanted.
When I first watched this video, I was expecting just a run-of-the-mill montage of idiotic and hilarious situations however…
I was not ready for the depth of attention they paid to human experience and insecurity in the realm of social interaction and the seeking of a partner. It’s not the most original approach but it is certainly the smartest and most impacting. The emphasis on honesty towards potential mates as well as towards themselves.
Then there’s this one:
Another steeped in being honest but with a twist. Being honest about how you feel and what you think and realizing that… you’re not alone in your issues. Most people have these issues and they affect everything they do not only because they’re issues but because they are afraid to talk about them for fear that they are the odd one, the strange one, the hateful and unacceptable one and it highlights a very real problem in society in the sense that despite how easy it is to communicate… its also much harder
I love this show so far and find its subtle humor and nuances hit somewhere deep leaving a lasting impression because you’re forced to place yourself in that situation and wonder about who you are and who is watching you. I plan to continue this series and most likely post a small review of each as it goes on because I love this and I love how it makes me feel and… hopefully, you’ll garner something about you from it as well…
-Harli V. Park-
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“I believe that the human spirit is indomitable. If you endeavor to achieve, it will happen given enough resolve. It may not be immediate, and often your greater dreams is something you will not achieve within your own lifetime. The effort you put forth to anything transcends yourself, for there is no futility even in death.”
It’s actually been quite difficult to complete my more serious plans for my blog considering I either am working far too much or my days off are filled with me being so sick I can’t accomplish anything. That being said, it’s 1 am and here comes a thought…
I can’t say there’s anything glamorous about my life. I can’t say if anyone actually reads my musings and enjoy them. I can’t even say this blog gets much traffic other than the few loyal that haunt me like friendly little ghosts in the dashboard stats. But, I can say that no matter what, I am trying…
My world has always been filled with misfortune in which being socially acceptable, kind, and approachable and being quite literally someone who gives zero fucks are constantly at war with each other.
Yet one thing that does not change is my work ethic.
People who are outside looking in, always believe my aversion to jobs — 9-to-5s, retail, customer service, food service, sanitation, even becoming apart of the american dream in a white collar position — is nothing more than a simple laziness and that often I am merely hiding behind my illness. That my Schizoaffective Disorder is a convenience so that I don’t have to function in society. Its even been labeled a burden for others around me.
However, it is not a burden that defines me, nor is it a simple convenience. It is simply a facet of me and it has nothing to do with my work ethic. Everyday that I have energy and breath I wake and put pen to paper, fingertip to keyboard, and mouse clicks to research links. I digitally socialize, I scroll through Facebook and Twitter, but I am also always working. My mind is a constant factory of ideas and production, arranging core thoughts, edits, information, and lore at such speeds that it has to compete with the severe anxiety and obsessive thoughts that act as spontaneously shifting tectonic plates beneath the surface of a fragmented mind.
But I still work. Continue reading
Very sound advice. -whispers- the Nokia analogy is the best part!
You’ve written a book.
Books are meant to be read, but your first draft is probably not the prize winner you want it to be. Not yet, anyway. That certainly doesn’t mean it can’t be, but you need some fresh eyes. When I first wrote The Elder Throne, my finished first draft was a flawed, exhausted thing. Instead of jumping right into the Beta Reading pool, I knew I had to run it pasta developmental editor for a second opinion. Of course, that’s just me. Not everyone wants to do that, and that’s fair enough. What every writer should do, however, is choose a group of Beta Readers. And here’s how.
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