Taken

I have watched her a long time

And now she seems mature and prime.
At dawn, I decided to have her and struck,
Grabbing and placing her in the back of my truck.
I thanked the dealer for the sale
And then drove out into the strong gale.
Tears streamed from her eyes like a broken faucet
Despite my vocal instructions to stop it.
Finally the vehicle pulled into the house
I could not wait to show the puppy to my spouse.

                Recently, as a leading member of a planning committee, I helped organize a forum at the Cleveland City Club about human trafficking.  Many people know of this crime’s propagation across the globe, especially in third-world countries.  However, many individuals do not know of its domestic pervasiveness.  Currently, the city of Toledo, Ohio serves as the premier hubbub of human trafficking, or “modern slavery,” in the United States.  In my poem, I wanted to throw the reader off guard and contemplate this harsh topic before they reached the poem’s conclusion.  I utilized words like “dealer” and “sale” to construct a harsh and sympathetic tone (4, 2).  The description of buying a potential human being arouses extreme discomfort from persons living in relative security.  Additionally, I decided to build a somber mood by comparing the tears of the puppy to a “broken faucet” (7).  The image of a busted faucet conjures to mind a seemingly endless streaming of tears, which tugs at the heartstrings of the reader and pushes the implication of future pain or torture.  Most of all, the opening line of the poem, “I have watched her a long time,” begins the story with a sense of horror (1).  The ominous tone of “watched her” has a disturbing connotation and portrays the speaker as a stalker.  Human trafficking can arise in nearly any environment and flourishes on the ignorance of the uninvolved.   Hopefully, my uncomfortable poem spurs the reader to do some research on their own.  Humans need a medium like film, journalism, or poetry to espouse the empathy required to take action.

Common Sense

Dear Eleven Year Old Self,

     I apologize for the extenuated period since I last wrote.  I have attempted to rebuff your presence, but it seems I can do so no longer.  Years of forced repression tend to do that to willpower.  Anyways, I am writing this letter as a source of forthright advice—some may call it criticism—to help you.  Think of it as a free how-to-succeed-in-life manual, but with snarky comments and a lack of positive reinforcement.  I believe John Holmes once stated, “There is no exercise better for the heart than reaching down and lifting people up.”  Therefore, by bringing you down, I am logically exercising my mind (a far more useful organ than the heart).  First order of business, lose the infantile and eccentric hobbies.  Owning a magic kit does not make you Houdini.  Spending your time practicing magic tricks equates to heightened awkwardness and the delusion that “everything will magically be okay.”  Furthermore, please discard the massive piles of rocks in your room.  What would someone intentionally spend money on rocks?  A geology degree does not wait in your near future, and I am fairly certain owning “pet rocks” represents significant psychological issues.  And speaking of rocks, I cannot even begin to comprehend your reasoning behind owning a rocket launcher—I think you know the solution to that dilemma.  Second, drink up on milk.  Hopefully, this will spur your osteoblasts to ossify what you need most: a backbone.  Harboring fear for darkness, for heights, for not doing a homework assignment…things need to change.   Doing one wrong thing, like breaking the law, skipping school, or forgetting your lunchbox, will not bring about the end of the world.  Getting anxious about minute problems makes you hauntingly shallow.  Grow up, crybaby.   Lastly, please—I beg you—purchase a real haircut.   The bowl-cut you “rocked” for eleven years needs to hit the road.   If you had any shred of self-awareness, you would realize you live as a modern day kid in twenty-first century United States, not a reclusive farmer in sixth century China.  In conclusion, if you heed my words of infinite wisdom, you will find little difficulty in the coming six years.   You might even ascend from the status of “unique” to “almost normal.”  What an accomplishment.

Yours Truly,

A Better You      

A Story to Tell

             Tears streamed down Maya’s face as she vigorously pumped her legs and ran down the street.  Running seemed the only rational action to calm her chaotic thoughts.

            “This—this cannot be happening,” heaved Maya.    Thump, thump.  Her feet rhythmically pounded against the solid pavement.  Each stride only confirmed the reality of the world around her.  Maya quickened her pace, desperately trying to defy her sense of perception.  The mental walls protecting her from harm, from the truth, began to deteriorate.  She needed to escape.

            The second hand bookstore stood at the intersection of Main and Worthington.  A dilapidated building that had seen more corrosion than customers, the bookstore exuded an aura of mystery.  Its apartness from the surrounding stores attracted the tired Maya.  She hurriedly wiped her face and entered the disheveled building.

            Shelves of misshapen books lined the small space from wall to wall.  A musty smell permeated the air.  From her peripheral vision, Maya could see myriad colors and sizes of books.  Not one seemed similar to another.

            An old man with large round rimmed glasses sat at an oak counter, reading a crumpled book with copious ink stains.  “You have quite the collection of books, sir,” said Maya, trying to steady her voice.  “Do you get many customers?”  She could not remember a single customer leaving with a purchase.

            “Bah,” exclaimed the old man. “I only keep this place running for my wife; she’s a schoolteacher.  She could never let this place go.  It’s too special to her.”

            “My mother is a schoolteacher too!  She always presses me t—” Maya cut herself off.  She had temporarily forgotten.   “She was a schoolteacher.”  Maya finished softly.

            The old man took off his glasses, exposing wrinkled, yet compassionate eyes.  “You know, stories are not confined to books.  Stories told through words, that are passed on to friends and children, are just as immortalized as text on paper.  The carriers of books, those that bring them to this store, have stories as well.”

            He beckoned to a padded chair beside him. “Come, this is a place where stories are remembered.”      

My Daily Pi

Pacing back and forth, I glance at the dining room table. Stacks of large volumes of text lay scattered on its surface.  Peering at one of the open pages, my eyes take in the haunting image of thousands of characters and symbols.  I know that I need to do this.  The time has come to begin my math homework—a three step process.  First, I pull out the calculator from my pencil pouch.   Before I can actually use the gadget’s software, I have to solve a series of twelve mathematical algorithms on the calculator.  If I do not complete these twelve problems within five minutes, a chip embedded in the calculator’s computing system automatically explodes.  From personal experience, a few of my friends unfortunately bit the dust due to slow reaction times.  The Chagrin Falls Math Department describes this pruning process as “natural selection.”  Second, I select a specially crafted mathematics pencil.  The eraser tip of the pencil has a coating of sulfuric acid.    Erasing errors on paper scorches the skin, which teaches the user to never make written mistakes.  Truly, no other mode of learning works more effectively than classical conditioning.  Third, I start solving the assigned 1,000 problems, which span over 16 textbooks written in four languages, including Swahili.  The first 500 questions inquire the basics: differential equations, integration, and world hunger.  After problem 500, things get a bit dicey.  The subject matter shifts to astrophysics.   Questions range from “How many stars exist in the sky?” to “Determine the flight path of Earth in 168 years.”  To reduce the incidence of mistakes, for every wrong answer, a random bone in the body breaks.  Luckily, the human skeletal system has 206 bones.  I can usually endure ten wrong problems before I have to go to the hospital.  If I am lucky, I finish within the 12 hour limit.   If not, I lose the privilege to see my family for two months.  Isolation from relatives reinforces work ethic and the cost of failure.  After a routine night of math homework, I will then treat any chemical or physical damage.  Optimally, I sustain the ability to walk and move my facial muscles.  After I put away my math binder, I assemble a machete and a pair of nunchucks for the more difficult task ahead.  English homework.