Emily Drazen

“You know when you print pictures
and they come matte or shiny?
Shiny is . . . shiny.
But matte is a little more dull, the colors kind of muted.
Levi is matte today.
His face is darker, blurrier.
I wish Mom wasn’t at work.
He’s scaring me. Four stoplights.
Why is it taking this long?
It shouldn’t take this long.
Where is the ambulance?
Where where where where where
where where where where where oh my god
levi
wake up
levi
wake up
levi
wake up Please forgive me.
It’s the only thing I can think to do. WEEK 51 I didn’t care about the cars,
I didn’t even think about them.
Have you ever seen a blue baby?
If you have then you know
you can’t see anything else
only that awful color
spreading through his face
settling in his lips.
I was holding him so close.
Running,
just running
down the sidewalk
hoping to meet the ambulance
but it still wasn’t there
and suddenly José’s house was there
and the turtle car was there
and I know the keys are always under the visor
and so I took it
even though it was probably going to catch on fire
even though I’ve never driven one inch in my life
I took it.
I stole it.
I stole that turtle car. Did you say five, James?
I hit five cars?
Well, I was really distracted. Five counts of leaving the scene of an accident.
Five counts of vehicular negligence.
One count of driving without a license.
One count of driving underage.
One count of grand theft auto.
One probation: violated.
I’m reading the charges
while I wait for the judge.
These khaki scrubs scratching me,
these white slippers not fitting right.
They left one thing off this sheet:
one count of saving Levi’s life.”
― K.A. Holt, House Arrest

“To prove his point, Mr. Sword launched into a lecture on Elizabethan theater, which was actually pretty boring until he described how actors would fill animal bladders with sheep’s blood and keep them beneath their stage clothes so that they would explode in a gruesome display during fight scenes. Sometimes, he said, if you were one of the lucky ones sitting up front you’d get some of the blood on your clothes too. He called it the sixteenth-century splash zone.”
― John David Anderson, Posted

“My dad reached over and scuffed my hair. “It’s not guilt,” he said, “it’s regret. They aren’t quite the same.” He took another sip of wine and went back into the house, leaving me and Robert Frost on the porch. He moved out three months later.”
― John David Anderson, Posted

“could tell. The disruption to the natural order of the universe. After another twenty seconds of awkward-as-walking-in-on-your-dad-shaving-naked-in-the-bathroom quiet, Rose set her crackers down, leaned back in her chair, and let out a sigh. “Okay,” she said. “I’m guessing you’re all new to this ‘girl at the table’ thing. How about this: I promise that I won’t bite or give you cooties or whatever else it is that you all are flipping out over. I won’t talk about my hair or blather on and on about celebrity heartthrobs or all the girls I hate, because, frankly, I’ve only been here for three hours, which isn’t quite enough time to hate anybody yet. I won’t discuss brands of moisturizers or lip gloss or use the word ‘crush’ in any kind of nondestructive capacity. And in return, you can stop looking at me like I’m some deranged lunatic. How does that sound?”
― John David Anderson, Posted