She’s painting white against white. It’s an octopus—I know from illuminated glances, stolen when the desk lamp lights each colorless ridge and layer—but to the passing eye, it’s just an empty frame on the textured wall. She shuts the door against me to add another layer of madness.
Gretchen has an octopus painting on her wall, but she supposes you do, too.
When I saw him the other day, I felt the strangest urge to strike up a conversation. Most peculiar, seeing as we’ve hardly been close. But the moment passed and I saw it wasn’t him, remembered it couldn’t be so.
A curiosity indeed that we’re always friendlier towards the dead.
Gretchen wants to make being out of place her comfort zone, so she’s going to keep on sharing her thoughts.
How Dare You humanize yourself?
How Dare You leave your assigned statistic?
How Dare You plead for the rights I forget I have?
How Dare You be more than a job-stealing terrorist?
How Dare You challenge every single assumption I’ve built?
They were right.
You are very dangerous.
Gretchen is a university student grappling with understanding the breadth of hurt in the world.
Laughing under the bright sun, my hands are appeased, my pen can’t write. But come night, black ink spills from my past, disfiguring page after page. My past claws itself out, hideous and raw, writing off who I used to be. Then day breaks and my head is calm again.
Gretchen Ivers is 16 year old who loves Jesus, laughter, and unicycling. She is currently teaching herself Braille.
Woke up on a different side of the mirror this morning, looking at a child who believed in herself and her dreams. I watched, helpless, as she was introduced to this devils’ haven.
I saw her life fly by, watched her sparkle flicker. Falter. Fade.
I miss being that child.
Gretchen Ivers is not quite sure why all of her stories turn out so morbid.
Its lifeless eyes looked back; not caring, just staring. Black plastic beads set into worn terry cloth. A million memories within those eyes. Many long nights did I spend staring into them, wishing to drown out the fighting on the floor below.
Sighing, I drop it back into the box.
Gretchen is a 15-year-old experimenting with writing. She loves unicycling and would like to thank Ms. Nelson for her referral to 50-Word Stories.