Rachelle+A

media type="custom" key="3417686"Memoir

Rice. The staple of every meal in my house. Hot dogs with rice, eggs with rice, you think it up... and its eaten in my house...and with rice. "Hey Chelle what are you doing?" questioned Dad. Often times growing up I wondered what other, normal kids ate if they didn't eat rice. Did they eat massive amounts of bread? Wouldn't they get really hungry? "Do ou want to do me a favor? It won't take long I promise." "Ok fine. What?" "We're out of rice!" Inside my head i though"so what" but didn't dare speak what I thought out loud. I had just gotten up from bed although it was already around noon and was still too groggy to be polite. But I snapped out of it and gave being nice a shot. "Can you go over to the neighbors house and ask them to borrow some?" "Why can't you just go to the store?"I thought innocently. Dad gave me that look. The one that he gives when he's let down or when you disappoint him by accidently over sleeping and missing the bus. He keeps turning his head. shifting his focus on the floral rice cooker, to you, back to the cooker, and then to all the newly cooked food that's sitting on the kitchen table without its supreme partner. So in order to avoid a long lecture that I probably have hear, I pick up the yellow cup and a Ziploc and head towards the garage. I threw on my adidas flip flops and ran my fingers around my raccoon eyes in attempts to clean up the smeared make up. The outfit I wore was acceptable and only acceptable in my neighborhood where no on is ever outside. Or at least anyone you cared about impressing. I whip out my hot pink cell phone and with my speedy thumbs I text my neighbor "Hey I'm coming over for a second, I need to get something." Her family, like mine, consumed rice with everything. It never occurred to me that showing up at their house would be a problem. I practically lived there in all seriousness. Buzz Buzz. It was a text. "LOL we're not home but u can go inside." Since I already knew the garage combination she gave me the alarm combination. "And don't forget to press zero as enter". No sweat. Lifting up the cover on the number pad my scrawny fingers dialed the numbers. With a loud jolt the door rose slowly and i made my way inside. I reached for the door knob expecting the door to give out a quiet hissing sound. I knew I would only have a few seconds to type the combo. Sirens blared. "Ok" I thought "A little louder than I expected by just go and type the numbers." Sudden loud noises scare me. Even if I know when they were coming. I inherited this convenient quality from my mom. "Two, eight, three cra... ..I meant six! There's no delete button?!" I hoped it would still work. Maybe it'll ignore that wrong number. My gym pad lock does that. I always accidentally pass the number I was supposed to stop and turn righ at. Hopefully this will cooperate with me. The sinister droning blasted louder and louder ripping apart my ear drums. Surprisngly I heard the phone ring. "Hi this is the securitiy company is everything alright?" Bluff, make something up, LIE! no one would ever believe what you were really doing and even if they were to be understanding, you would be too embarrassed to declare you true intentions. "Yeah I'm fine.. I .. uh ... Just.. forgot my combo.. that's all" "Oh alright are you sure you don't need police assistance?" The frigid weather outside left you chilly, but now you were the complete opposite. Pressure took hold of you and you were no sweating like crazy. I pictured the cop car pulling up into the driveway and i breaking down the door with a giant log. What would the ask me? They're gunna take my picture? I'll never get into college. I've neever been in a cop car before. "no I'm good" I answered as the lady hung up. The house was no longer screaming. Lemme just get this stupid rice. I open another door and he house began screaming again. DAshing to the key pad I typed the numbers. Perfect. Dialed each on perfectly..until I forgot which one to hit as the enter button. For a split second I thought about which button would equal enter and decided to hit the pound button. That's what my voicemail says to do when I'm done listening. Wrong. I dial my neighbor on my cell as the house phone starts to ring. Back and forth I'm trying to balance a conversation with this lady and my neighbor who wont stop laughing. The alarm is still blaring. At last my extreme stalker knowledge of my neighbors comes to use when the operator asks for every little detail about "my house"., The operator turns off the system and the house is a t peace besides the dog who is insanely barking. Peeping out the window to make sure there weren't flashing red and blue lights, I darted to the door., Praying that the door would let me out quietly and that an officer wouldn't be outside waiting for me. Coast was clear. My trembling body was uneasy thinking about the consequences of theft. The goody two shoes me just committed a felony, almost, kinda. I tried to convince myself that what I was doing was normal. "Yeah lots of people borrow cups of sugar from their neighbors. This wasn't different at all." Didn't work. My logic told me that no one else did this. I stepped out onto the driveway with my ridiculous outfit. Without feeling the smallest bit of sympathy for the partner less food, I didn't go back into the house for rice. He was going to have to deal with bread for the day.

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__Rachelle Abayon's short story__

__The New Life__ Car horns force your grey eyes out of your slumber. You let out an extensive yawn and stretch out your long and slender legs on the king sized bed furnished with twice as many pillows than you’ll ever need. “Guess I have to go through another day of this”. On your way to the mirror you glance out the window that gives a view to the hostile bricks and lofty buildings that encase you constantly. Picking up your designer leather purse, you dig out your make up bag over loaded with designer products that in actuality are just face paint. Your real mother taught you to never put on too much make up because it would hide your face, but what did she know she was gone. First foundation, cake it on a couple layers. Followed with powder and bronzer. Then rosy pink blush, to give you a little glow. Fine bristles of your brush caress and decorate your face. An hour later you are almost finished with the masterpiece that is created everyday. Your eyes are pleased with you saw, but you were tired. You make your way down the never ending staircase that dominates over the enormous chandelier that hangs over you in the foyer. Being a little bit short of breath you finally reach the marble tile floor that you can see your reflection in, and stop by the office to greet your father good morning. He is startled by you. He jumps out of his chair and brushes papers under his desk. “Well good morning there! You should go eat you aren’t late for school”. You find your new dad odd at times. His strong eyes seemed to grill you forcing you to look away, but you appreciate him nonetheless. He wasn‘t very strict. Gave you a diamond necklace when he first saw you. You thought that he would become permanent and forever, like a diamond. After all, he saved you…so you can’t complain too much. Your mom that you live with is in the kitchen who just ordered the maid to fix you up some breakfast. She never told you that your face looked overdone. She sees you and suddenly turns around and mumbles into the phone that she radically slams down. “Why hello Angie hope you had precious dreams.” “Who were you talking to?” you ask. “Oh no one. Not anyone important, that’s all”. You shrug it off and decide not to worry about it, but keep it in the back of your mind. At school other girls are mean to you, but all they boys seem to be enthralled by you. You didn’t pay attention to any of it though. Adolescent boys rushing with hormones all crowd around your locker waiting for you before first block. “Did you dream about me? Are you free Friday night? Why don’t you ever call me?” They ask you. Giving them a closed mouth smile that you frequently give, and ignore those remarks even though sometimes you do want to talk to them. But you don’t. The secret was to never say anything to them. The more you said, the more they would have to fall in love with you. The only class you enjoy is the art class you signed up for. The art room was the only place you felt comfortable. Other classes required too much recollection of useless things. You don’t like to remember the past, especially things that were in fact useless. For you remembering the past was painful. Rarely anyone spoke in art class and whenever anyone asks you if you have seen their paint brush or their canvas you sneer with your nose in the air while giving them an unhelpful shrug. You decide that being helpful was unnecessary, since no one really helps you. Five minutes before the school day ends you text your father to wait outside of the main entrance. You didn’t take the bus because the bus was filled with people you didn’t know and simply could afford to have your dad chauffer you around the metal and concrete city. “What are you up to dad?” “I just, uhh, got back from the bank, had to talk to a guy who uh… was giving me a hard time”. You accidentally kick a large paper bag with your exclusive boots. You pull up to the long and winding drive way to your house as you are welcomed with the extravagant white columns that support your house behind the gated fence. Its not really your home though. You tell yourself that you never really had one. You just have lived in a bunch of buildings with people who cared for you. Or so you thought. But whenever you fell unhappy about your current life, you simply raise up the sleeve of your shirt. The black and blue scars which hurt just to look at, were your souvenir from your idiot mother who married the liquor loving man your father was. You fight it, but sadness accumulates in the corner of your eye dropping to the ground. A drop of dignity lost. Part of your mask is torn off. Which was why life was better somewhat with your new parents. You became slightly close to your new mom, to some extent. You told her about everything in your past. Not in detail though. That’s how you knew you got comfortable with her to some extent. At first you mentioned the girls at school who gave you dirty looks. Later on you told her how painting murals set you at peace. Once you even showed her some of your favorite work. Your mom listened occasionally while she talked on the phone with who you thought were her friends. You didn’t fight for her attention because you understood that she was busy with work. However it was nice to have someone who listened…. a little. They were always out working, even late. You don’t really mind. Besides, everything was different in this side of the country that was in a constant rush. People talk fast, they drove fast, and they judged you fast. You have become accustomed to being alone. When you were alone you checked your wallet for the weekly crisp bills they left you to spend. You needed to buy some more art supplies. This shopping complex was mostly small local businesses. It didn’t always feel good to spend money you didn’t feel safe doing it. This was because you knew that every dollar spent was another dollar that could possibly end up in the hands of a criminal. But you assure yourself that these businesses were real and legitimate. Your hands are introduced to the brisk air when you push against the store door that jingles when opened. Caught up in the new art supplies and fashion magazine, you pull out a bag of sour candy. You ate the sour candy because it reminded you of that there was a bitter sweetness to a lot of things in life. Reaching for the house alarm key pad to open the main gate, you are overwhelmed with loud clicks of cameras alongside news crews and reporters who come at you from every direction. “What are they doing?” you ponder with uneasiness. Blindness strikes you with red and blue lights. A once distant siren pierces. It crawls into your ears interrupting our thoughts. Forcing you to listen. Dropping your new pristine paint brushes on the pavement covered with gum and cigarette buds, gravity yanks at your knees. Tears cascade your face as you begin to rub forcefully. You were just tired of painting a smile every morning, and hoping for something new.

__Unplugged__

Don't worry about opening your eyes Grandpa. I'll be your eyes and watch out for you.

This automatic machine, beeps, pumps for you, breathes for you, it lives for you.

I ask you to calm down, but your brian activity is already none. Once we unplug you, you'll be free and at peace.