|Take All the Pain, It's Yours Anyway
(The story of Hannah, a honey of a girl)
by Patricie Chrásková, 2C
|It Was My Twelfth Birthday
by Barbora Bartůňková, 2C
He was lying on a bed, a new gramophone was spooling out a song of one of his old vinyl discs. ...by the mail, send me dead flowers to my wedding, and I won't forget.... The phone rang, he switched off the gramophone and took up the receiver. A voice told him that Hannah was dead.
He was paralyzed. He didn't listen, no more. He put the gramophone needle back to the groove. ...to put roses on your grave... He saw her face in his imagination. But just in his imagination. Ideas, feelings, flashbacks. He remembered her beauty. Her eyes were hazel and her nose was slightly curved. Hannah honey was a peachy kind of girl. He remembered what they lived through together. He wasn't able to believe that she was dead. How did it happen? The song finished, he changed the disc. Never in his sweet short life he had felt like this before. He asked himself if he would find peace of mind in the silk sheet of time. At the moment, he had got no expectations.
He remembered their first encounter, out in the park and in the dark, on the bench. He was sitting and playing the guitar. Hannah came and took her seat beside. After two minutes of silence, she took his guitar and she began to play. The song she sang to him stuck right in his brain. Amazing song about the Mississippi.
And the next meeting? She asked him to tea. At three o'clock. For an Englishman born and bred, she had got simply nasty habits. She took tea at three, she ate meat for dinner. The meat hung up for a week.
She was reallz strange. They could be talking about anything / the nom de plume of her sister, the morphine, the death of Kennedy, the smell od dandelions, the beast of burden, or the Jophnny/be/good / and she was able to say that she thought she heard an angel cry and saw a teardrop falling from his eye. Or something like that. Sometimes he didn't understand.
At home, he was feeling like being in jail. There was too much pain and too much sorrow. He took his guitar, the same hannah played the song, and he went out of the house. He went to the park where he met her, and he sat on the same bench. He began to play. He didn't sing but some guy knew the lyrics. Of course he joined. ...I was feeling down-hearted... The voice wasn't as beautiful as that from the discs.
He ran off leaving the guitar on the bench.
He crossed over the road in Chelsea. Someone screamed that there was a car coming. It was a rose pink cadillac. Such a beautiful cadillac he always wanted. But not to kill him. As he was lying there, Hannah came and helped him to stand up. She said: "You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes..."
The day my father gave me a BB gun was my twelfth birthday. With a smile, he put his hand on my shoulder and took me outside. He set up cans and showed me how to shoot. First, loading the gun, aiming and finally - firing.
It was strange how that bird landed on top of the middle can. I glanced at Dad. "No!", he said. "I don't ever want to see you killing anything. That's not why I bought you this gun." He groaned. I think he was afraid that I learnt how real power felt like...
Soon, I found plenty of other targets. "Hey, Bob!", I yelled to my friend. "Cheek this out!" I aimed at the top of a telephone pole. I fired and the BB smacked the top of the pole, hitting that little ceramic cylinder that the phone lines are hooked to. "Cool!" Bob said. I smiled like the king of the world. It was a great feeling. The neat thing was that no matter how many times you shot at those things they never broke. Then again, maybe that's why it got boring.
A few months later, I was walking down the street, the gun in my hand, looking for new targets. I stopped by a telephone pole, popping off a few shots with nothing better to do... Suddenly, a bird swooped down and landed on the wire. It was a pigeon...
Here I was, a bored kid, carrying a BB gun, and a bird standing right there in front of me - and no one around to tell my dad. It was so perfect that I figured it was a sign from God. I aimed straight at the pigeon, held my breath and... (I was about to kill a bird! At one moment it was sickish, at another exciting... The exciting part won - I closed my eyes.)
... I fired! The bird dropped like a rock. I heard it thump into the dirt. I opened my eyes. I realised what I'd done - I'd killed my first animal! I threw the gun away.
I never told anyone what happened. But I will remember killing that bird - along with a lot of other things - for the rest of my life.
WHY DO 11,000 PEOPLE DIE IN AMERICA EACH YEAR AT THE HANDS OF GUN VIOLENCE?