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Chapters 1 and 2: Old September and Save Me from My Comfort Zone 
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 Chapters 1 and 2: Old September and Save Me from My Comfort Zone
Short stories that are compact and workable enough to tell a story that doesn't have to be (necessarily) complete; but long enough to give a few details about someone's personal feelings and the hard lessons on what it means to "grow up" from being a child to being an adult. ___________________________________________________________________________________

(Old September)
What is the only thing that will wake me up in the morning; the cool air breeze into my bedroom, the numbers turning two zeros on my clock; or the fact that I can't stand to be home alone and bored? You so much as stay in bed with your head stuck under the blanket, you calmly shut your eyes and pretend the word doesn't exist, but that's not the way it works in a reality is it? I arrived this morning feeling like I usually do, tired and pissed; looking around for a job on the computer wondering if an opportunity is going to jump right out. Apparently it has yet to come to pass for some three and a half years. I've been lazy and half keel but that never puts me off into a previous position, not yet anyway. I wonder what will happen when a combination full of monetary constructs basically tell you what you have to do. When I both love and adore something which doesn't cover this; I seek no apology, no affirmations. No tortured souls breaking down or bearing upon me. They came for a cure, seven numbers were a form of conjecture that related to a kind of stillness. Seeing the shape was one. Relating to another was another misfortune of this little girl I once knew that wore slovenly like a cheap suit dancing to her little fairy tale debating whether it was necessary for us act like we did. Boorish and unclean; callus and afraid over what may one day look like vengeance, cloudy enough so we're all afraid over not acting like an acquiescent bullfrog.

What does the cool air breeze do for me? Looking over my tiny broad shoulders to see the summer is over. There's nowhere else to go, nowhere else to leave from. No food, no lights, no indication left that I felt safe . The memories were gone.

(Save Me from My Comfort Zone)
What is my comfort zone? One of my earliest memories as a kid was waking up in a house to seeing no one around. All that was left in front of me was an empty bowl wit ha spoon inside, a box of cereal and a reminder to get to school on time. I felt uncomfortable and afraid; they left me there to grow up by myself. I can only but so distinctly remember the crossover from eight to ninth grade being on the one hand easy and the other an effortless way I once made friends. One day to the next ran the summer; but this time I was all alone to try my best again. I saw no opening; I was left to grow up by myself. I didn't know how to reach or who to trust exactly; where my whims or feelings, smiles or mysteries came from.

So I grow up alone, so what. Being passive apprehension is not a bad thing. Anger and fear with resent and felted under-appreciation goes unnoticed. A feeling of commonplace and complacency, I am that way and yet so much more. If you ask I will tell you what it would take to return to the days of old, nothing to say, the moment is gone. I am and it is without not that the system stays and was always waiting for me. Kind of like genetics not clicking in until a certain age; like puberty of the hormonal imbalance that won't start overflowing until everything is readily slightly different, eschewed and off kilter. Where is the normal? Remind me of the parameters of that comfort zone I once knew because I don't know it anymore now than if I ever did then. Once as a child, I am afraid now. Terrified of being alone with no one, not even my wandering monolith to guide me as it still continues to do. No, I'm evermore angry or hateful. I can express it in a way only I can with plenty of zest appeal. Vivid imagination runs afoul with the law whilst I steal anything that isn't nailed down. My mind can run a thousand miles while taking only one step from wake to sleep, a glass of stale room tempature water or champagne. The light inside burned out long ago. I accept that, now and forever more, or gleefully at least until I die. Whichever comes first, I do not know sure a heck won't be told.

Nice Try.

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Fri Sep 25, 2015 9:41 am
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