Catcher in the Rye - Waiting for a Goodbye

At the top of Thomsen Hill,
waiting for a goodbye,
a forgotten memory,
a lost picture,
a piece of his life,
fading away.

Ossenberger Hall,
his not-so-sweet home,
where he read,
book after book.

But he was leaving,
once again,
packing his bags,
leave this goddamn place,
school after school.

Book Review: Shattering Glass

Gail Giles’s Shattering Glass is a suspenseful and all around captivating realistic fiction novel that is told from the point of view of Young Steward – a member of a family of doctors, which causes his father to obligate him to take science courses over the much preferred writing ones.
This book is about a group of friends one of them being Rob – the most popular kid in the entire High School. He controls the school as he pleases, if he wants someone to do something for him, he will get them to do it. As he cruises around the school, he notices a kid – Simon Glass, the biggest nerd in the school – and decides to make him popular. This affects Young though, as he sometimes doesn’t agree with Rob, and sometimes he is asked to give up something very valuable to him.
Shattering Glass is a very entertaining novel that will keep you intrigued about what is going to happen. But although the novel does a great job at portraying equality, how High Schools are divided into hierarchies, I didn’t clarify a profound lesson or message. The characters where relatable and realistic; however, some of their actions where out of character.
This is a medium sized book (215 pages) but it is all filled with action and entertaining reads. It has none of those “boring parts,” but it doesn’t take a lot of effort to understand what is going on in the story; therefore, this is a great choice for those who look for a fun, easy-to-understand novel; it takes away all the boring parts out of the book and only consists of the action and excitement. On the other hand, I wouldn’t recommend it for readers looking for a deep message and complex puzzle for one to figure out.

Poetry Friday: My Father

My father,
the comedian,
the short fuse on a bomb
waiting
to explode.
The workhorse,
my companion.

The sage man at the top of the hill,
to whom I resort to for advice.

Because of him,
I try to emulate his jokes,
work hard,
and try to stretch that fuse
just a little bit more
for an extra second
before it explodes.

Memoir Monday: Wild Pitch

It was a cold and barely lit morning. It was 9 A.M but it felt like 5 A.M because it was a weekend. We had a game today, so I was warming up my arm with a teammate. Coach walked towards me and asked, “Have you ever pitched before?”

“No,” I answered.

“Do you dare to try?”

“Sure,” I said. Truth is I had always dreamed of being a pitcher. Ever since I started playing baseball a couple of years ago I had great respect for the position and hoped some day coach would call me upon me to pitch. I had never stood on the mound and delivered a pitch towards home plate during practice. I had once in a pick-up game a year ago, but not once since.

I warmed up with the catcher, he was calm and nice, I looked up to him and had great respect for him because of the elegant way he played. I threw the ball from in front of the mound at first, then from behind, and then I got on it. I threw a couple of strikes that went right down the pipe towards home (four-seem fastballs), some that took a curved down and to the right (two-seem fastballs) in which I accidentally threw with my palm facing outwards, and some that started up and away for a righty which dropped nastily into the down and inside corner (which I wasn’t sure if it would be called a screwball or a sharp sinker).

We batted first, and the first two walked. I came up to the plate and saw four pitches, all balls, and took a base. Two more walks and a hit to short, left field took me from first to home. We batted around, so I came up to bat once again in the same inning. I took another walk, this time on six pitches. A hit to right field moved me to second, and I started for third. The ball beat me to the base for so much I turned around and prayed they would make a mistake.

The third baseman threw it to second, making me stop, and try for third again. It got to a point where I was five feet from third (and the third baseman), and the shortstop (and the ball) where five feet to the other side of me. If the shortstop tried to tag me, I would just run for third and hope for the best. If he threw it to third I would go back to second and continue the rundown. He did neither, and I inched closer to the bag until I was at a distance where I thought it was safe to make a break for it. I took off and slid feet first. The rocks of the infield scraped my leg, and I accidentally laid my weight on my arm. I was called safe, and the runner from first got to second. This I would call a heads-up play. My arm throbbed in pain. It wasn’t a scrape or a bruise. It was the bone. I came home on another hit, and sat in the dugout hoping I would feel better.

It didn’t feel much better, and now I had to pitch. I was given a couple of warm-up throws but my arm was failing me. I was pounded in the inning, mostly thanks to the first baseman because he couldn’t make rather two-out play that would have ended the inning with low damage. Instead they scored six runs on that. Another play was flunked by the first baseman and I got furious. I yelled a couple of phrases at him, nothing rude but I do admit it wasn’t on the best tone of voice. On the next play I got the batter to pop-up and thank god the first baseman wasn’t there fielding because I swear he would have dropped it.

I learned that even if you learn fast or think you can do something, you can’t do something in a game that you have never practiced. Also, luck can get the best of you in situations that matter the most.

Poetry Friday: My sister

I lie down in my bed,

And memories of her are evoked.

I remember how she would walk in my room,

And we would rant about anything, or everything.

She would tell me stories,

Some funny,

some sad,

and some a little bit of both.

I remember…

I remember the times she drove me to school,

Listening to music,

And singing along to our favorite tunes,

At the top of our lungs,

Wanting people to listen to us.

I remember…

I remember the times we would watch movies together,

Staying up late,

Listening to it on headphones,

Not wanting to alert my parents.

We would laugh and joke,

Repeating lines from the movie,

and laughing some more.

I remember…

I remember the inside jokes we had,

Which only we

would understand.

We would show them off to everyone like a new pair of shoes,

Telling them over and over again,

And then burst out laughing,

Leaving them puzzled.

I remember…

I remember…

I know that I am here,

And you are there,

But you will always be

My sister.

Slice of Life Thursday: Never Say No to Panda!

It was getting late, and almost everyone had already logged off Skype, meaning that the day was almost over. There were only three left, Kun Hee, Pablo, and I, but there was no active conversation taking place. I was browsing YouTube for songs, when *BIP...BIP..BIP BIP* came from the Skype conversation. I clicked pause and checked what they where talking about. I saw a link that lead to YouTube. I clicked it, not thinking much, there was nothing else to do. It was some commercial for a cheese brand somewhere in Asia (I guess) where whenever someone refused to eat Panda cheese, a panda would show up and trash the place. It was so hilarious I could barely breathe. Nothing on YouTube has ever made me laugh this hard, NOTHING! It was probably so funny because it was late at night, and for some reason, stars align and cause everything to be ten times funnier. So for you asking where is the video? Here it is:

Wordly Wise Wednesday

What is it about the service in Panama that makes it horrible? This thought haunts me almost every day of the week. It doesn't matter if your order is as simple as a coke, or if it is an interminable list, the waiter will still get the order amiss. I entreat for it to be fixed, and after 50 minutes of arguing, and shouting – that causes the other costumers to be interested in the issue because they heard our voice to reverberate across the room – which includes having the tremulous guy call the manager, his sage, which will then go on a profound tirade, while he stutters on every sentence. The manager shows signs of being a recluse due to his lack of social skills. After the manager has left, they bring me a cold, soggy meal that looks like someone has already chewed it.

Also, living with irascible parents doesn't help the cause, as they abhor the waiter even before they walk through the door. This is understandable as this sort of service is prevalent in Panama. Therefore, it is surprising to be greeted and attended in an affable manner, and you hope it recurs. But I become despondent when I enter another store because it is right back to the horrible service.

The only thing that impels me to return to the restaurant is the fact that there is no place with descent, and consistent service.