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My Sister Megan
My Sister Megan
Megan really isnt my sister, shes more of a Chosen sister and I dont mean Step-Sister Either. We have been friends ever since we were at school; well we were until that dreadful day I had slipped out of my bedroom hidden under my anorak, the cold merciless air stung my face as I miserably trudged on. I kept quiet. If I was caught out of bed after 10:00 in the Home you got Grounded and put on Washing up Duty for a Month.
I have always lived in a Home, Ever since I was small, I never knew my parents.
I had reached the church gates, I gently sat on it swinging backwards and Forwards, An Old Childhood game that Megan and I had played. I silently jumped off and headed for the Graveyard, People reckon that Graveyards are spooky at night but really its just cold, lonely. I found her grave at the back, the fresh mound of earth and the spotless grave.
I felt tears running down my icy cheeks, f
What I Pine for...I sit in the car and wait, I dont listen to the sounds around me, I cant.
I dont mean Im mentally disturbed in fact everyone is always praising me for my endless efforts but I cant here their voices.
Im Deaf, Already Ten years old and one of my senses is gone.
In my dreams I hear, I hear my sister Lisa playing her sax, I hear my Brother arguing endlessly with my Dad.
I pine for my hearing back, I can remember myself wishing that I could hear.
Maggie? Lisa asked
I dont here, Lisa taps my shoulder and signals that she is going to drive away.
I nod and follow procession
On the way Home Lisa lets me choose an ice-cream from the Kwik-E-Mart, I suck at the Strawberry coating savouring ever last Mouthful.
Lis is the best Sister I could ever hope for
When I get home I go strait to my room, I climb on to my bed and wonder a thousand wishes if I would ever hear her sweet voice again.
I Lost my Hearing after played fell of the Jungle Jim
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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