I Think I Am A Communist...

I think I am a communist. The reason I think and don’t know is that I don’t quite understand all the facets that make up communism. I understand that it is a system that evenly distributes the wealth, which is something our country could use at a time like this. I understand that we would have one supreme ruler who could not be voted in or impeached. But the consequences are possibly more numerous than the benefits.
The American economy is indubitably crashing, but part of that reason might possibly be the extreme wealth of a movie star sitting opposite the empty bank of a minimum wage family living off of food stamps. If we took the wealth from the famous and distributed it evenly among the community, we might possibly see a difference in not only living, but the personalities of those who receive the new wealth. I don’t doubt that the wealthy would have a problem giving their well invested, hard earned cash to those who have made poor business decisions. They would eventually become accustomed to the maximum, minimum wage that would have to set.
The part of communism that bothers me the most is the rule over our lives. We would lose the right for an opinion. We would lose the right to be a true human being. Even the Father of the entire planet gives us the right to choose, but I suppose a dictator would not. They would tap our phones, watch our television consumption, ration food, make us go to a state church, and various other enforcements that make my skin crawl. They could make me eat lima beans- I don’t like lima beans.
I don't think I am a communist anymore. I don’t think that this system would survive among this country. Americans are too opinionated, too wealthy, and too egotistical to distribute the wealth and let someone tell them what to do, where to work, and how to live. I myself am too selfish to allow any such system to prevail in my own environment. I have successfully talked myself down from the ledge of communism.

Writers' Blockade

Expedition. Car. Kayla*. Whore. Sex. Gender. Girl. Pink. Purple. Bruise. Scrape. Band-Aid. Hole. Bury. Shovel. Hoe. Rake. Leaves. Tree. House. Room. Clean. Clorox. Wipe. Tears. Rip. Paper. Draw. Abstract. Ugly. Pretty. You. Me. Pattern. Mess. Coagulation. Confused. Blonde. Brunette. Redhead. Jokes. Funny. Serious. Matter. Atom. Bomb. Pain. Suffering. Peace. Love. Rock-n- Roll. Music. Silence. Volume. Mute. Play. Stop. Go. Away. There. Here. Anywhere. Lost. Left. Behind. Front. Back. Side. Yard. Green. Field. Ball. Goal. Walk. Run. Fall. Summer. Vacation. Work. Pay. Bills. Money. Broke. Fix. Done. Finished. End.
This happened to be a poor attempt at removing my writer’s blockage. It helped almost as much as running naked through a briar ridden forest. It helped almost as much as smashing my car windshield out with a bowling ball then using the class to carve my name into my second cousin’s flesh. While I can vividly describe these instances, I cannot develop an opinion on the effects of streaking or smashing windshields.
I would like to thank Seth for his original word- expedition. It was a terrible beginning word, but better than my word- cake.

JWMC

It all started while she was a baby. She had fierce green eyes- like her father. They were the only trait they shared- the only thing they ever had in common. She was born with her hands held out. She came into the world expecting everything to be handed to her and she got it- every single desire became her reality.
As she grew, she realized the advantage she had on the rest of the world. She had a mother who had taught her exactly how to manipulate any being on the planet. She had a father with deep pockets and a sympathetic heart. She had all the assets she would ever need to conquer the world- to ruin everyone’s life.
If she gained a little weight, she got liposuction. If she wanted bigger boobs, she got them. If she wanted a new Cadillac, it was hers just as soon as she totaled her Mercedes Benz. She blinded the world with her lies. She snatched their shoes from their feet when they weren’t looking, then she hacked their feet off at the ankles all while convincing them that they were too tall anyway.
When the money ran out, she had to feed her dirty habit- her addiction to beauty, power and alcoholics. She stole from everyone. She sold her mother’s barbiturates, her disabled father’s pain medications. She stole her sister’s children’s college fund. She took them all and gave nothing back. She never had to. There was always someone to make excuses for her wrong. There was always someone to say it was her trashy husband’s fault.
But this time, this time is different. Her fierce green eyes- like her father’s- they burn through everyone. Her conscience ceased to exist a decade ago, so she feels no remorse for the pain she inflicts on her family. They are the only ones she have left that wont betray her- that was, until today.
Today, when she conned her own father into handing her $3500 to add to the $3500 she stole from an old lady at the nursing home, we all turned our backs on her. We shut our doors. We put her furniture, with all its mold and mites, out into the yard where it belongs. We kicked her green eyes out the door and told them to never comeback. Her green eyes- the last tie she has with the family- we kicked those out.
Her story will reach its end. One day, her desires will be her demise- I think that day might be today. Today might have been the day when someone finally said, “No!” She has used up all her beauty. Her surgeries have worn off and all the real skin is peeking through. All the money is gone, and so is her power. All the faith is gone and all that’s left are her fierce green eyes- the ones like her father’s. It was the only thing they ever had in common.
Good riddance mooch!
J D Hunt

Growing Down

Growing up is one of the hardest tasks I have ever faced. I have always convinced myself that I was as mature as I could possibly be. I’ve always thought I was very diplomatic, very classy, and very diligent. I am an adult- what I have always imagined an adult should be anyway.
I have recently realized that, it’s not your age that makes you an adult. The older I get, I seem to remain in a certain frame of mind that is far beyond the age my birth certificate says I truly am. I’m not exactly trying to say that I am advanced and mature, but more along the lines that my mind was forced to grow up before the rest of my body was ready.
My parents expected more out of me than any five, six, seven, eight, or nine year old previously have had expected of them. I will sheepishly admit that I thank them for it every day. While everyone else was playing with Pokémon and Barbies, I was learning reading comprehension and language arts far beyond my level. People used to overlook my proper grammar with a simple, “Her mom was almost an English major. She makes her talk good at home.” To them I would reply that she makes me speak correctly, not talk good. People hated me for that. It was never a child’s place to correct an adult.
What I didn’t understand then that I understand now is that as long as you can keep someone guessing at your age, the longer you can enjoy an intelligent conversation. Once they figure out you are merely twelve, not sixteen like they had assumed, their vocabulary level drops, their ideas wander to things of lesser value, and they start asking you about your elementary school.
The reason growing up is hard is that you have to admit your immaturities and move on. You have to be willing to say, “I am still a child here. Can you help me fix this?” Admitting your weaknesses is what growing up sums up to. It takes someone who has completely dropped their guard, to advance another level of maturity. That is why most people never fully reach adulthood.
It’s a peculiar subject- this growing up. It is open to interpretation. One might say at age 18 you are fully matured- I’d say this person is an idiot, but that is the child in me. Debatable as the specifics of the matter are, growing up is the over purpose of life. Growing up is what keeps the youth of today striving for the promise of tomorrow.
Guide us well parental units
-Jessica D Hunt

Earth

Earth has been around for a long time. It puts up with a lot of crap from us. Have you thanked your earth today? Thanks Earth, way to just be!

For Example

Everyone has met one of those people- you know the ones I’m talking about. They’re the ones who stand out the most. They may not stand out because they are outstanding. They may not be able to hurl a sixteen pound bowling ball fifty feet or spell disestablishmentarianism backwards, let alone forwards. They may be a simple personality that you only get to experience for just a fraction of a second- but somehow, by the grace of God, we remember them.
One may call them a role model. I prefer to call them an example because a role is for acting and a model is supposed to be flawless. I don’t want to be flawless. And I don’t want to act like something I’m not- so an example is what I shall call these people.
I met my “example” on the first day, in the first class of my junior year in high school. I didn’t like him, his personality, his voice, his music, or his sense of humor. I wrote him off immediately. It took about a week for me to get over my first impression. Shortly thereafter, I realized that he was put into my life to help me grow up.
Any adult who knows me, or has spoken to me for just a moment, is well aware of how grown up and mature I am. But this is not the growing that I needed. No, I grew much too fast in that department at a very young age. I needed to overcome some of the walls that had built in my life before I met him. I needed to grow stronger, but before I could do this, I had to be broken.
I had to break myself to make me weaker. Why fix what isn’t already broken? You see, I was broken- more than I had allowed anyone to know. I had to chip away the tough façade. I had to destroy everything I thought I knew about myself, so that I could move on from all the hurt I was carrying around in my heart.
He didn’t mean to help me- he probably never wanted to help me. But the important thing is that he subconsciously guided me by grabbing my interests in certain areas that eventually led to self discovery. He helped me with encouraging words concerning all matters. He treated me like an adult- the adult I had been for a while that no one had bothered to notice. He coaxed out my personality. I won’t give him all the credit. He was simply a free lance guidance counselor and a shrink on occasion. But those random acts of kindness are what helped me realize my value.
To all those who live to be an example- remember that you aren’t living for only you. The smallest things are sometimes what mean the most. You may never be called a hero out loud, but know that you are a hero in someone’s heart. Remember that those you guide are your responsibility and look after them. Know that you will never fail in their eyes- you are flawless in their hearts.
Thank you for always listening from behind my walls,
Jessica D. Hunt

Cell Phones

Cell phones and other multimedia devices are absorbing the brains of our current generation. Parents ignore their children and children ignore their parents whenever cell phones are present. They are a hindrance in the development of personal relationships. Cell phones, despite their convenience, are a negative contribution to society over all.
It is a common occurrence to find an adolescent’s face buried in his or her media device. Constantly they are texting, talking, navigating the internet, or various other activities found in that specific cell phone’s programming. They are slowly losing their ability to communicate with the breathing world. It isn’t only the teenagers who are completely mindless with a cell phone in hand. Adults are ignoring their families when they pick up a cell phone. Whether it is used for business or gaming, a cell phone is one of the most distracting tools known to man.
Because no one has time for anything but their cell phones anymore, personal relationships are harder to come by. We are teaching the younger children that you cannot exist without a phone in your hand. Our world is be downgraded as our phones are continually upgraded.
A cell phone may be more convenient than a radio or other slower ways of communication, but they are slowly replacing real communication. When the only way we let our authorities know we aren’t going to be around is by text message, something must be horribly wrong. Cell phones have their place, and it is not in front of our noses at all times.

What If...?

My English teacher assigned this assignment as a response to our spring break- I almost took it seriously.
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Spring break is nothing but an extra long weekend for me. It’s not a time for vacations, nor trips to unusual places. It is simply a time when I have to sit home and clean, watch television, and take various trips to town to run errands. This spring break was no exception. There was nothing remarkable or exceptional which occurred within this past week.
After a forgetful weekend, I was locked in my home to perform various tasks which would improve the overall appearance of my abode. My mom left with a few stern instructions for me to fold the laundry and clean my room. There is something one must understand about laundry in my house. My mom has the horrendous habit of letting load after load pile up on her bed. Usually after six weeks, she realizes that the drawers are bare and people collecting clothes from her room at all odd hours. Then she instructs me to take care of her problem. I folded clothes all day- socks, underwear, baby clothes, oversized tee shirts, work jeans, and pajamas. I was down to the last basket which contained seven socks, and I had to leave for a work day at church. Realizing that my mom would understand, I left to perform my civic duties.
While I was cleaning the church, my ill grandfather called and requested my presence. I consented and left to visit. I thought nothing of the visit since the location was less than a mile from my house. So as I sat on the couch with my grandpa, listening to him snore as he watched an old John Wayne film, my mom began her journey home. Twenty minutes later my cell phone started to sing at me. “Where are you?” my mother grumbled from the other end of the phone, “get home now!” When I arrived home she told me to forget the rest of my spring break just like I had forgotten the seven socks.
Tuesday, I was taken to the office as my initial punishment. As I applied for various stores around town, my phone rang. My best friend requested my attendance to a movie with her and her boyfriend in Tallahassee. I asked my mother in what I thought was vain. But to everyone’s surprise, she permitted me to go if I promised to run an errand for her. The three of us piled into Ashley’s small gray car and drove to the movies.
After a brawl with the Garmin GPS system we arrived at the back side of the AMC Theater. Flustered and late we pulled into the parking lot at an illegal speed. We swerved around a fair that was setting up in a separate parking lot and pulled around the front of the theater. Just when we thought we were home free, just on time, an ever so sneaky goose bolted in front of the car. Narrowly, it escaped a gray death and we made it to the movie just in time. But what if we had hit the goose?
Feathers flew everywhere as the oversized duck lay convulsing on the hood of the car. A spider web had etched itself into the windshield from the impact. Every passenger gripped the armrests of their seats as Ashley gripped the steering wheel. The sneaky goose wriggled its way to the ground and let out a honking screech of death, and then it ceased to move.
We slowly slipped from the car surveyed the damage which had caught the attention of an approaching security guard. His yellow lights were glinting off the shattered windshield and onto the face of the goose murderer. He slipped from the Ford Explorer and walked over towards us slowly. He was fat and had a ketchup stain in the center of his starched white shirt. “What have you done to this goose?” he asked as though he couldn’t see the disheveled animal lying limp on the ground with its feathers all over the hood of the car. He hoisted his belt and cocked his hip to the side, waiting on our reply. Ashley was too distracted by his Hitler mustache to give him a comprehendible answer so I volunteered my voice.
“Well, as you can see, this goose flew in front of our car just as we rounded the corner. The death really was uncontrollable. We are so sorry.” I offered with as sincere a smile I could hold in the situation. He licked his mustached lips and pulled out his notebook. “Do you realize,” he began, “that this particular breed of geese is endangered?” I was unable to control her tongue, “Of course they are if they keep darting out in front of Hondas.”
“Hey! This is no time for a sense of humor,” Then the mall security man grabbed Ashley’s arm and put her in the backseat of his car. Turning back to Ashley’s boyfriend and me he said, “There is a fine for the slaughter of this innocent animal which must be paid at the time of the accident.” He hoisted his belt once more and cocked his hip in the other direction. “You will need to bring $3500 dollars to the security office on Munroe St.” With that he got into his patrol vehicle and drove off.
I had no experience driving in Tallahassee and no money with which to bail out my friend. So the boyfriend and I got into the feathered car. He turned on the Garmin and typed in the name of the office we were in search of. Twenty minutes later, the Garmin told us where we needed to go. We pulled out of the parking lot and hit the highway. The second my tires hit the highway, it started to pour, and while it washed the feathers from the car, it made the roads dangerous. After the Garmin’s robotic voice led us to the office, I was given the task of parallel parking. It took five minutes for me to finally get the car strait in the space, but I finally killed the engine and we ran into the office.
Ashley sat in room with a glass door reading DETAINEES. The secretary behind the aged counter smacked her gum and twirled it in her fingers. “Can I help you?” she asked in a Jersey accent. “Yes ma’am,” I replied. “I am here to rescue that detainee. You see, there was this sneaky goose…” She held up two fingers and shhh-ed me. She typed furiously and said, “I need thirty- five hundred dollars.” My debit card was declined due to insufficient funds and the boyfriend just shrugged.
Frustrated, the secretary stood and led us to a back room. The walls were papered in an odd green color. In the room sat this old man with grayish hair and horn-rimmed glasses. “Bring that other girl in here too,” he instructed the secretary. Ashley entered the room and sat across from us. “Do you understand that you have killed an endangered goose?” We all nodded. “Do you concede that the accident could have been avoided?” We all nodded. “Good. I can lower the charge to $1500, but I can’t let you get away any cheaper than that.”
Ashley always wear clothes that are a little too low cut, revealing a little more than we would all like to see. But today, her overexposed chest is what saved us a hefty fine. She slid her chair back a little and leaned over the table, giving the old man a perfect view. “Please, let us off with a warning, just this once. I promise it won’t ever happen again.” With a crooked grin, the old man nodded and waved to the door.
Triumphantly we strolled to the damaged little gray car. We decided to skip the movie due to the day’s events and just head home. The drive home was quiet. Inside however, we were all laughing. We had hit a goose, been arrested, parallel parked, flashed an old man, and lived to tell about it. Good thing, we hadn’t actually hit the goose, or I would have had some story to tell about my spring break.

The Incredible Hulk

I think that animators should redo this classic once more, but not as the green monster who could really use some anger management. How many times have you seen children imitate a fictional character- countless. So what they should do is create an environmentally friendly hulk who says, "I'm going green!" then randomly picks up a plastic bottle and drops it into a recycling bin. So get mad! Go green Mr. Hulk

-JD Hunt

Save you one last time

A small boy delivered the news
That was it and you were gone
It seems like you’ll be here tomorrow
But I know that I am wrong
I know I haven’t yet heard the truth
I’ll never hear what really happened
And that’s okay- I’ll believe what I want to believe
But I give you my apologies
I should have been there- I could have stopped everything
I could have kept your temper in my pocket
Saved your life- your future
But I didn’t because I wasn’t there
A knife to the throat was a knife to the heart
Your heart
Your life is ruined
Congratulations
Your friends will miss you
Your future called- it wants its potential back
Because you stole it
Hid it away in your anger’s place
Everything has a place, Kelsey
And I should have been in mine to save you one last time

"My favorite part"... hurt the most

Some people may argue that words are useless. Some may argue that they are only needed in conversation. Some people may conjure up the audacity to call what I do a waste of time. But what they don’t realize is that without my writing, I have no reason to exist. If my thoughts don’t escape in some way, I fear that nothing else would be allowed into my brain. It would be like an accident in rush hour traffic – everything would cease to function properly.
Recently, my mom decided to do some cleaning- this is usually my job, but she decided to do it herself, for once. She was emptying our hall closet due to the flooding of the guest bathroom sink- it spilled into the hallway and she had to prevent molding. Games, sheets, blankets, forgotten art projects, memorabilia and various other stale, forsaken things spilled forth onto the bed of my little sister. Like my mom always seems to do, she walked away from her cleaning project and started something else. I, out of curiosity, wanted to see what the hall closet had hidden since the last time I entered in what seemed to be the fourth grade- when I was nine years old.
Lying on the first wire shelf was a hunter green Five-Star notebook labeled Jessica’s Writing Journal, Fourth Grade- Mrs. Love. I faintly remembered it. I remembered the fourth grade- it was the year of the terrorist attacks, 9-11. They were the reason that Mrs. Love had asked us to keep the journals- it was similar to the holocaust and Anne Frank, only I’m not a Jew and I wasn’t afraid for my life. Of course, you couldn’t expect a fourth grader, especially me, to focus on just one thing for the entirety of a school year.
I grabbed up the journal and made a break for my bedroom. Up the stairs, around the corner, close the door, turn off the radio and there I was. In my hands I held many forgotten memories. I opened the book to the first page to find my family described in poorly executed cursive. I went on to tell of my friends from home, my new baby cousin, weekend trips and other useless times. I was only writing for the check plus at the top of the paper.
I remember in the third grade I had the chicken pox. They came late and they hit hard. Well, after the illness had run its course, the sores didn’t go away. In fact, they worsened. Horrified by my grotesque skin, my mom rushed me to the dermatologist. After hacking off one of my earlobes and poking me with a few scalpels, he gave me the thrilling diagnosis of psoriasis- delicious.
One day, Mrs. Love asked us to write about one thing we would change about ourselves. As an overweight, skin diseased, second youngest, tallest, weird girl, one would think I’d have a lot to change. But to my surprise, all I wanted was to be older- that and for the popular girls to not make fun of me anymore. As I read about this pained child I have lost touch with over the years- I have completely blocked out my childhood after the first grade- I slowly remembered what it was like, what she was going through.
The very next page is my interpretation of September 11th. I saw it as a wakeup call for our country. I spoke, with poorly worded grammar I might add, about how panicked my household was. My mom bought a lot of bottled water and hid flashlights in the bathrooms. My dad bought a lot of ammunition for his guns. Then I talked about the churches response to the attack. The doors for the first time in my entire life stayed open all day, all night, all week. It strikes me as odd that this is what I noticed about the time. I noticed the irregularity, but not the tragedy.
Later on, after I flipped through some stories with sad endings, I found another entry regarding the war. “We are at war now and we are flying and bombing, but now we have ground war. I think about it a lot. I’m scared we might lose, but I pray to God that we might make it through.” These are the words of a nine year old stranger. “Wars are not good, I wish peace would come to the world.”
The very last page was the only one that made me cry. It made me remember why I forgot elementary school. I performed an analysis on the entire class and the entire year. I reported on each individual in my class- not all were nice reports. About half way through, I remembered the teasing. I remembered the popular girls telling that one boy that I had a crush on him. I remembered that one girl making fun of my size and the clothes that I wore. I remembered the first year with one of my best friends. I remembered all my other friends leaving. “My favorite part was how I had more than one friend. In fact I had six friends. Six! Can you believe it?” If you hadn’t guessed, this is the particular line that caused me to cry.
Just as quickly as I was sucked into the world of this pathetic fourth grader, I was evicted. I knew too much about the future and all the good I could one day have. If she had known about all the good, she would have never overcome the bad. She wouldn’t have needed to. But she did- I did. I made it through all the negative comments and rejections. I learned a lot from all those bad experiences. And I’m proud to be who I am today.
Took you long enough!
-Jessica Diane Hunt
Age 16+ and so so much older.

9-1-WAIT!

The phone rings- its one in the morning. The first thought that crosses my mind is I’m going to let this telemarketer have it. But of course, they stop calling at eleven. It’s a family emergency. How quaint. I am sixteen years old and I am constantly bombarded with the multitude of family “emergencies”. The problem is, very rarely are they emergencies.
I search the receiver for a mute button then after finding none, I suck in my breath. “I can’t find your sister. I woke up at midnight to take another Zanaflex and she and her girls were gone in the car. I don’t know where she went. Have you heard from her?” says Grandma. With a stifled snicker I clicked the talk button and slammed down the receiver. It’s so funny really. She wants her out of the house and the second she leaves she panics.
My family is so obsessed with trouble that when none is present they invent their own. I must express my pity on any passer-byers. They never know what hit them. Just, everything was all smiles then suddenly- WHAM! They hit them with some mythical garbage and their peaceful lives are over. I know I’m not making any sense- you too would understand had you ever met them.
The phone rings- its two AM this time. Wasting no time searching for a mute button, I pick up the phone. “- he called me crying. He asked if he could come see us. I just took the girls to see John for a few minutes. But mom’s not here. And all the trouble she’s been having lately, I’m just worried. Has she called you again?” Convinced I had the entire story, I hung up the phone.
Here is what I had deduced. My aunt, who is going through a divorce and really doesn’t want to, is calling her husband against her mother wishes. Since she is living with her mom, she must submit. Its been three weeks since the initial break up and her two daughters haven’t seen him since then. Drunk he calls around midnight and asks to see the girls. My grandmother’s dreams must have been very boring because she woke up to start trouble. The two phone calls and here we are.
It wouldn’t be a big deal if they were less frequent. It wouldn’t be a big deal if there were ever real emergencies. I could actually show some sympathy if anything were ever really wrong. But two A.M. Really?
The number you have dialed is no longer available, please stop trying to call so late.
-J D Hunt