Mia's Last Post

Hey, I know Luc has already blogged about the end of the year. But I just wanted to say that I have really loved blogging this year, and I hope that the future "bloggers'" that use this particular outlet have fun. And that they do not have ANY typo's in their work. Seriously. It's completely embarrassing to have typo's published online for all to read.
I would like to thank Mr. Key, for allowing Luc and I to blog.
Have a nice summer, everyone.

We'll Miss You

Hey Jefferson jets this is Luc one of the co-blogger and I am just here to say that this is goodbye. Even though your favorite blogger of all time will be gone you will have a new generation of blogger who will take over. Mia and I may drop in to be guest writers but you never know. Over the summer we won't have any post but when the new years starts you will be reading a whole bunch of post, from variety of people.
Have a great summer Jets!!!!!!

And remember the blog must go on!!!

Old Books by Mia

I love the smell
Ink printed on yellowing paper
Corners curled
Binding worn
I love the smell
Of old books
Holding so much mystery
Wisdom
Profoundness
Old Books

The Model by Mia

I flipped through the pages of my magazine. There. There I was. Crouched on the floor, black makeup running down my cheeks, curving around my lips. Thin. So tiny. My bones protruded out in anyway they were able. My shoulders, my back, my face. Over the bones and air brushed skin, I was modeling an artifact of clothing that closely resembled a wedding dress. I turned the page. Now I was lying on a unnecessarily tall bed, lips cherry red, glossed over and open. My wavy blond hair was thrown over my left shoulder carelessly. A golden sheet wrapped around my body, cocooning me in a rather suggestive manner. I was an icon, a piece of art. I was something to be admired, to be sought out. To be a mystery. Not to be loved.
Pages turned. This time I was full body pressed up against another model. His thick fingers in the arch of my back. Stilettos. Torn black dress. Blue paint peeling off the doors.
I remembered when I was a little kid, and flipped through this same type of magazine, wondering who they were. Those models. Those young girls who wore designer clothes and five hours worth of makeup. All of them so----unreal.
I wanted to know their names. I wanted to know who they were. I knew, even then, that behind that mask, behind that beauty, there MUST be a real person. And now, ten years later, I was one of them. A high fashion model that mystifies teenage girls and cries and cries herself to sleep each night because she feels so worthless and objectified.
I could see the resemblance, barely, between ME and the face the world saw. But it wasn't the same. The pictures didn't show my green eyes or naturally straight hair. Nope. It was covered up. They covered me up. They weren't going to cover me up anymore.
I had modeled to Elle, People, Italian Vogue and French Vogue. I had modeled for Victoria Secret and Gap. But I didn't feel beautiful. Weighing a normal weight was not an option. Working out was forbidden----any muscle gain or tone would not only ruin my weight of 105 lbs, but it would "break up" or "disturb" my body complexion that was desirable in photo shoots. Taking off my colored contacts was discouraged. As for makeup, well----I wasn't allowed to take it off until I was alone. Completely alone, with not even the slimmest chance of someone seeing me.
I let the magazine fall to the ground, bending under its own weight on the maple floor. I took the mirror and broke it. Jagged silver clashed on the floor, reflecting me upwards. I took the food from the counter and ate it. I packed my bag and left.
I was done being covered up.

A Slew of Poems by Mia

Haiku

Thick paper, black ink
Creamy white pages turning
A world inside

Diamante

Fire
Mysterious, Raving
Burning, Devouring, Destroying
Forests, Homes, Oceans, Clouds
Flowing, Shapeless, Terrorizing
Blue, Soft
Water


Free Poem

Jealousy

It was only a kiss, how did it turn into this?
Jealousy, turning the best into the sea, choking on the sight before my
eyes
Jealousy, I cannot watch this unfold
She takes his hand now
He takes her lips now
I refuse to look, but my eyes cannot help but watch
How did it turn into this?

Lanturne

Breeze
Balmy
Wind Blowing
Lanterns Glowing
Still


A whole new slew of poems for tomorrow!

Am I Falling or Flying?

Am I falling or flying I asked to myself. I have no answer so I shout to the heavens “Am I falling or flying?” But no answer comes. This feeling is like no other, the feeling of falling free in the air, but nothing compares to the cold crisp wind against you face trying to break through. The question seems so simple, am I flying for I have not hit the ground, or am I falling in a bottomless pit? But wait! I have an answer, am I falling or flying, the answer is neither. I have found my own way. I don’t have to choose from those two choices. Up and down are only two directions, I want to go in any and all.

Progress Reports

Progress reports. Most parts of the year it makes sense get your grade up by the time report cards come around. But for half of the time we were testing. we should not be graded like that. The students should have at least an extra week to get d=graded work in for the teachers. But then again I don't run the place.

Pin Point Vision

My sight is narrowing down....like a darkness...coming down upon me...it comes to take me way...into the abyss which is death...I not fear it...I embrace it and hold it dear...for my time has come...and I must go...so I bid you Ade... but some day I'll see you...

SBA's

Oh, the horror the horror.
The SBA horror.
As hundreds of us are aware, the SBA's, or Standard Based Assessments have come.
Actually, to be more precise, the bout of horror came yesterday.
The actual tests, though pointless and irritating to complete, are not as bad as what the SBA's will do in the long term.
The privatizing of public schools is, to use this word one more time, is horrible.
By 2013, the bare minimum for every student to achieve on the SBA's for each student is 100%.
I could write about this very topic for hours, based on how much it irritates me. But, for the present, I will be content with this unreasonably short rant.

Short Story by Mia

I woke up with a jolt, hot wet running steadily down my lips, salty and slow. My room was full of shadows, tucked in the corners of my book shelf and desk, the walls were pearly white. Something thrummed on the ceiling. Rain, I suppose. I crawled out of the sea of blankets, as the cool air was disturbed by my movements, goosebumps erupted on my bare legs.
The blinds rustled as I pulled them up and opened the rusting latch on the window. I was greeted with with a spicy smelling breeze, saturated with the smell of early morning.
As the tears on my face froze, I remembered why I was crying. My dream. Or, rather, a dream of my reality.
I had been running. Running from him. Someone I had loved. Someone I had trusted. I closed my eyes again, still heavy with sleep and irrepressible sadness. I reminded myself I was not in the dark corners and shadows of a street, but in the warm, blue darkness of my room.
To my right, my alarm clock beeped lethargically. It was old and tired, yet it still preformed its duty of ringing at 6:30 am each and every day. I clicked the button softly, and it fell silent. I lived alone. In a sense, I had always lived alone.
I walked to the kitchen, the floor creaking in loneliness. I flipped the switch of my coffee machine, and wrapped my arms around my head. Flashbacks of David were playing in my mind.
The window was streaked with rain, distorting the view of my pathetic, dying back yard. It had been neglected too long. The calender on the wall read August 29th.
Only three weeks ago it had happened.
"Gray, I'm so sorry."
Gray. That had been my nickname. My eyes were gray, lined with thick black lashes that needed no mascara. I used to love my nickname, now it only brought back figments of better times. Now, I was only called Jessica. Jessica Brown. The eighteen year old who feel in love with her high school boyfriend. The girl who got pregnant. The lonely artist who got an abortion with David holding her hand.
I had picked him out the first day of high school. The first day I had become a freshman. I had walked up a flight of stairs outside, mingled with with fear and anticipation. He was leaning up against a wall, sunlight catching his hair, holding it golden. I watch him in wonder, this beautiful being with black eyes. I was drawn to him, as if a rope was strangling my heart and tied to him. David. His head turned to the left, and he saw me. He sauntered, slowly, towards me, flicking glowing ash from the cylinder between his fingers.

"You new?" He asked.
"Yeah." I replied dreamily.
"Listen, cute little freshman like you don't usually get treated very nicely around here. So if anyone gives you any trouble, come and talk to me."
"Um-sure?" I replied questionably.
He smiled at me, held out his hand. "I'm David."
"Jessica."
"Naw, you're no Jessica."
"I'm not?"
"No, you're Gray."
"Gray?"
"Your eyes. They're a really deep, warm gray."
"Oh, thanks." I retreated, stumbling over my own legs. I was totally and utterly infatuated with him.
"I'll see you around, Gray."
I turned to see him blow a kiss to me.

It was the coffee machine that brought me back three years into the present. I quickly poured the dark brown stimulant into a cup on the counter, steam rising in thickets of white. I cradled it, bringing it up against my chest. I let the moist heat seep through my shirt into my skin, loving the burning sensation in my finger tip.

"Gray!"
I had been under a tree, sunlight fingering my exposed legs. The air was soft and sweet, heavy with the scent of freshly mowed grass. The pages on my lap fluttered, creamy and supple in the breeze.
"So, Gray, how's being a freshman?"
"Fine. A sophomore?"
"Not as--amusing as being a freshman."
"But you said it sucked to be a freshman."
"Naw, Gray. I was just trying to make you talk to me, that's all."
"You're very direct, David."
"Sure am. Only way to survive around this place."
"Hmmm. I haven't found that." I replied.
"Want to go out to dinner with me on Friday?"
"Really?"
"As friends, of course."
"Yeah, that would be awesome."

I set down my coffee cup, opened the cabinet to retrieve a blueberry Poptart. The wrapper crinkled loudly as the square pastry slid into my outstretched hand. I bit into it, sinking into the slick, cold frosting and flood of sweet flavor.

"I had a lot of fun with you, Gray."
"Yeah, me too."
"I'll see you on Monday. Maybe sooner."
"Maybe."
His eyes lingered on mine.
"Bye." I reached to unclip my belt buckle and open the door. He caught my hand.
"Wait." His voice was calm, though I could sense nervousness--even excitement. He leaned forward, his hand on my neck. Lips moved softly against mine. I felt a zing go up and down my spine as I kissed him back.
"Bye." He whispered into me.

I switched the light on in my room, and yanked my dresser drawer open. I shed my clothes in favor of new ones. In the bathroom I left two symmetrical trails of black on my eyelids and red gloss on my lips.

"You don't need to wear makeup, Gray. All you need is your gray, gray eyes."
'If you were me, David, you'd understand."
"If I were you, I'd have thrown that makeup away a long time ago."
"Shut up." I smiled at him."
"I'm serious, Gray. You're so beautiful."


I checked my watch. I had to be at work in fifteen minuets. I was employed in a tiny coffee shop owned by an enthusiastic Italian. It was called Guispeppe. My friend's mom had given my the job last year. She also gave me a week off after--after it happened. I usually walked to work, since my car was broken and I had no money what so ever to fix it with. I slid into my rain jacket, the lower portion of my stomach still sore.
As I opened the cold and wet wriggled past me into the small living room. I stepped out, the murky water splashing up my jeans. I grimaced as more cold found its way to my skin. I could never escape it.
I began to walk, perfect spheres hammering the hood on my head. I turned onto Delancio street, close the tiny, bright cafe. Everything was moving rapidly, voices fused together into one, monosyllabic messy tone that filled my head.

"David, I have to tell you something."
"What?"
"I can't believe I'm saying this. I don't know how it happened...." I felt as if an icy knife had been thrust into my chest I felt so much pain. Unfathomable pain. "I'm pregnant."
Silence. Silence as I watched his eyes dilate. Silence as he wrapped me up in his arms. I breathed in the smell of smoke on his clothes.
"What do you want to do?"
"Get an abortion." I whispered into his shoulder. He hugged me hard. I could feel his pain mingle with my own.


I pushed open the door, a bell clinging. Then there he was. Sitting in a deep red, velvet armchair, legs cross. A book in his lap. I stopped abruptly, mouth open, my heart thumping in confusion and joy and fear. Someone I had loved. Someone I had given my life, my time, my dreams. He had taken them. I felt at his mercy.
"Gray." He stood up, lips slightly parted as he took my hand.
"What are you doing here, David?" I choked.
"Will you marry me?"

Chili by Mia

From the time I was a small child, I knew I was not meant to be a New Mexican. I was abnormal. I was abnormal in the sense that I was missing the key preference ALL New Mexicans should have in tact from the time of birth. I hated green chili. I hated all chili. I hated chili with such a passion that the chili itself, who was loved by most, weeped in rejection with little chili tears.
I of course, have no idea how such a tragedy occurred. My family has live in New Mexico for four generations. As a fourth generation New Mexican, one would think such a food sensitivity would have been long extinguished. That thy sensitive little taste buds would have become mutant ninja, chili loving tastebuds. But, no such miracle took place.


I had to suffer the embarrassment of walking into a Mexican resturant and ordering green, not red chili, on the side, not smothered on every cubic inch of the entire freaking plate. I had to endure not the burn, but the sickly flavor and repulsive texture of chili.
It was for this reason, this horrific hatred, that I believe I belong somewhere else. In another state, another country. Perhaps in Italy , where the blessed souls have not even heard of chili. Those wonderful, innocent Italians who ask if you would care for some chocolate cake, creamy with no hint of chili. It was at breakfast, in New Mexico, when I was thinking these thoughts. Simontanisouly, I was scraping off chili from my eggs.

Character

Character is what you are under pressure not when everything is fine,
yet when the pressure comes none have come to shine,
you choose to blame,
and never to take the shame,
you tell people to do their best,
when you your self are a big old chicken fest,
now is the time for us to stand on equal ground,
hold our heads high and help the whole world round,
in this crisis comes a blessing,
to make the world better instead of stressing,
we can make things better and fair,
what we need to do is to share.

Rollercoasters

I hate roller coasters. I've hated them since the time I was four, and hate them to this day when I'm sixteen. I hate the uncontrollable, terrifying airborne feeling. I love heights, just not at such a speed I feel like I'm about to be catapulted out of my seat onto the poor innocent civilians below. But now, standing on scorching pavement with the heat of the day pressing down upon me like a hand squashes a bug, I am looking at the twisted wooden track that is mounted above my head. As I stared, angrily, at the Satanic entertainment device in front of me, the voice of my friend could be heard.
"Ooh, let's go on that one!" She called enthusiastically.
If she had been been my friend of five years, I would have slapped her. "No." I said flatly as I walked away.
My arm was grabbed, and literally twisted into getting in the line. I was close to crying. I didn't let them fall, obviously, other wise I would look like the whimpy dork who was too terrified to get on a roller coaster. Okay, I am the whimpy dork who is too afraid to get on a roller coaster, but I was not admitting it. Time clutched me in its iron fist, and though the temperature was near 102 degrees, I was shaking with cold.
We got on the ride, and I was already visualizing the roller coaster breaking, the seat belt not working, my leg getting caught in a cord and being ripped off like that fourteen year old girl in Georgia.
"I hate you. I really do." I told my friend.
"I hate myself too." She replied.
I glared at her. " I don't hate you, really. But if these are my last words and you made me get on this freaking roller coaster then yes, I hate you."
"Fair enough."
It started. It started and tears were running down my face and I was clutching the bar in front of me to save my life. It was highly embarrassing, but when you think you're about to die it's a little hard not to cry. Little did I know that this roller coaster was literally the biggest, scariest ride on all the Six Flags. And amazingly, after three hours of shaking after the Titan, I did not entirely despise roller coasters anymore.

There Is Something On Your Back By: Luc

There is something on your back they say,

I shrink away but still they look,

They pry and do not go away,

Why won’t they leave,

They say it again there is something on your back,

They run around and try to see me to get me off,

But I am smarter than that,

I shrink away into the shadows and none could see me,

They poke and pry but can not find me,

I am there but so well hidden none could find me,

Not even a dog,

But when they leave I come back out and you should know that I am there,

You look away and try not to think about it,

But I am still there,

I shall not leave,

There is something on your back,

And it is me.

A Pleiades on Goldfish by Mia

Gloriously crunchy
Gladly beaming through a
Greatly salty mouth with
Ginormous fishy eyes
Goldfish are vibrant orange
Gladly swimming in a
Green box of rainbow fish

Lyrics by Mia

Has anyone sung the same song, over and over and over again in front of you on purpose? If such a tragedy has struck, I can be overly empathic. For the past forty five minuets, a friend of mine has been singing and skipping non stop, declaring in a sing song voice all the way down the hall: "I FEEL PRETTY! OH SO PRETTY! I FEEL WITTYYYYYYYYYY!" It's quite irritating after the first, or second, or 78th time. It has been the bane of my existence to have songs get stuck in my head, the lyrics written above are plastered to my brain. Now all I can possibly think about is the atrocious movie starring Adam Sandler: Anger Management, where this song was sung in New York City rush hour traffic. I feel pretty, oh so pretty. I feel pretty and witty and gay!

How The Tree Came To Be

The Earth was blank and the Moons did rise,
but nothing stood tall of any size,
the fought and bickered about what should be,
but then one of them could truly see,
she made them each happy and compromise,
but with this great happiness came a surprise,
they had to meagre to give their gift,
to make the Earth live the sky must shift,
so they each became one changing each night,
to watch what they'd created they must keep it in sight,
for when all have died or forgotten who would remember that beautiful name you see,
who would remember that name that name tree.

People of The Fire

The people of the fire dance in the night,
eating my positions and I think it's not right,
they glow and frolic in the wreckage looking for more to eat,
but they see that I have lost interest and look to take a seat,
they ask me why so and I tell them not,
for you see the things that I have sot,
are meaning less in the light of what was saved,
they lie on their side on the road newly paved,
she's my little sister and I can say,
all those possessions are not worth her play.

The Stimulus Bill

The stimulus bill was passed recently which will hopefully jump start the economy, but what are we really getting out of it. This bill is close to 50% tax cuts, to put this in prospective single people could get back up too eight dollars a week, and married couples may get up too sixteen. But some time in the future when our grand children are paying really high taxes to pay back the money for this stimulus bill they will ask, "I am paying really high taxes, and I want to know what you spent the extra eight dollars on." You might say that you used it to send your kid to college or maybe to by a house. But the very depressing and likely thing is that you probably used it to go to the movies or go out to eat more often. But if the bill had the original amount of spending to create new jobs, you could say that I sent someone to college and you would be telling the truth. We don't need less taxes, we need more jobs, and I think the last eight years has taught us that. We need to learn from our past so we can create our future.

Valentines Day

Valentines Day what a waste all those flowers and candy bought to show love,
But some of us now stand above,
Watching you scurry and run to the store,
and I must say what a bore,
the love in your life shown by candy,
bought in a store made by some Andy,
if you truly wish to show your affection,
spend time with your love and make a connection,
don't let them leave or feel nothing in their heart,
for who knows how long till you'll be apart.