Jeremiah's School of Levitation

Upsy-Daisy!

Friday, April 14, 2006

Poetry Friday!

Mona has unleashed this thing, this irresistable thing, that I must follow along with, like the macarena or something. It involves us bloggers creating creations inspired by a single word and bravely posting these creations upon our blogs. This week's word is "hidden" and so I roped that word and handed the reins to my muse and, with little guidance from me, as usual, my muse took off on a tumbly trip that ended up with the following words strewn together:

(Mona, thanks for your bold leap into this experiment. No matter the outcome blogger-wide, I commend your step-up-to-the-plate-ed-ness (there's a word for that, which will come to me at about 4 o'clock this morning, long after I can use it) and you get an entry in the way cool hall of fame. Sorry, there's no money involved in that, but I will buy you a cup of coffee if you ever visit the Great Northwest.)

Hidden
by Jeremiah

Typewriter sounds came from the closet, I swear, I swear.

I sat up in the bed and I stretched my neck. The typewriter sounds had stopped, but they were echoing, popping in the night air. I swallowed and looked at my clock. 3:13 am. I looked out of my window. I could see the big magnolia through the crack in the curtain. That old tree, what my daddy called the hanging tree, always looked like it was creeping closer and closer, one of those branches sticking a skinny finger out at me, telling me to come here. I wanna hang you. You wanna hang on me?

"No!" I said, and put my hand over my mouth. I didn't want my daddy coming in here. He hated when I woke him up, told him the hanging tree was calling on me, or if I told him I saw footprints appear in my shag carpet, and there was no one there to make them. He hated when I told him that the back of my neck was real cold, like a ghost was breathing on it. He hated being woken up by me telling him what he called "ghost stories." He threatened to take away all my ghost books, all my ghost comics, and all my art stuff so that I can quit drawing ghosts. "Look little lady, you wake me up again and tell me ghost stories, I'm gonna make all that ghost stuff you have disappear. Just like they were a damn ghost. Now get to sleep!" That's what he said.

Mommy was much more gentle, but she's not around anymore. She is dead of cancer. She died a few months ago, but I'm alright, because I believe that she will be coming back around, but I think she hasn't made it back to our house yet. I think that's why the other ghosts are acting up. They know that she's not back yet and they are acting up. I know, one day, they'll stop acting up because my mother will have showed up and scared them off. Like she used to do when she was alive.

I got up and walked to the closet door. I always kept the light on in there, but sometimes the ghosts made my daddy shut it off. Not tonight, though. It was still on. I put my hand on the doorknob. It was cold, real cold. I swallowed again. "Don't scream. Don't scream. Don't scream," I said to myself. Even though I believe in the ghosts, I know I might scream when I see one, so I have to tell myself not to.

I turned the knob. My heart was getting bigger and bigger and louder and louder, it seemed like. I pulled the door open.

Nothing was in there. Well, my clothes were in there, my dresses and my sweaters, and my toys, the teddy bears and the rag dolls. I looked down on the floor. That letter I wrote to mommy was still sitting there, on top of my Little LuLu shoes. I picked it up and read it again. For the millionth time, I suppose.

"Dear Mommy. When you come back, please tell all the ghosts to get the hell out!!!! Please tell them to go bother JoBeth next door because, you know, JoBeth broke my Barbie Jeep on purpose and she is as bad as bad can get. And, also Mommy, can you come into daddy's dreams and tell him how you made the cassarole because he screws it up all the dang time. And, that's all. I love you mommy. See you later. Your little girl, Adele. P.S. If you can't come back in person, will God let you write me? I hope so. Bye."

I got all the words spelled right, I think. I looked them up in the big old dictionary that mommy used to keep right next to her old typewriter. Daddy hid the typewriter and the dictionary after she died. I think he did it to help him get mommy out of his mind and out of my mind. But, I found where he hid them, and I looked up all the words. But mommy was still hiding in my mind, and I really wanted her to come out too. I know she will. She can be a ghost too. I believe in ghosts.

I put the letter back on my shoes, and I shut the door. I went back to my bed and curled in real tight, like mommy used to tuck me in. I looked at that magnolia tree again. It looked like it was telling me to come on out and get myself hanged.

"You just wait till my mommy gets back. She'll show you!" I said. "You just wait!"
Jeremiah, 1:01 AM

2 Back at me:

Bravo! Man, I tell you what, you have the best command of dialogue I've seen! I love this! Love it and want to read more!
Blogger Mona Buonanotte, at 6:00 AM  
You and Mona -- the next wave of gothic writers. Fantastic!
Blogger gypsy, at 8:10 AM  

Say sump-tun