Star fruit 25
Author: sunsetsinthewes
Challenge: Star fruit 25. My best wasn’t good enough
Extras: Whipped cream
Word Count: 870
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Story: Polyfaceted; the title of this story is Go Fish.
Summary: Vito struggles to complete a poetry assignment and receives a little help.
Notes: This is for extra credit in the fall challenge and takes place April 2009, when Vito is fourteen. It's also for my My Treat from sarcasticsra (The myriad ways that Violetta helps her son through school). Hover over any foreign words or phrases for a translation.
***
"Well, then I’ll just fail!" Vito snaps, hurling his pencil against the table and slamming his textbook shut. “I don’t care!”
“Sweetheart...” Violetta sighs and slowly counts to three before reaching for his book and returning to page 247. “That’s not an option. Now come on, let’s take a deep breath and try this again. I’ll help you.”
Vito grumbles a few choice words, snatching a notebook off the table and ripping it open. “I’m never gonna get it. I’m not smart like Mina. I’m just gonna fuck up and fail again.” He presses a pencil against the paper with enough force to snap the tip. “The teachers hate me, anyway. They know I don’t get this poetry shit, why do I have to do this?”
“We all have to,” Gino points out, lifting himself onto the kitchen counter and swinging his legs. “It’s not too bad, anyway. Ma says poems are like songs, but without music.”
“Well, that’s stupid. All of this is stupid. Why the fuck should I care if some ugly chick split a taxi with Death or if some old guy went for a walk in winter and forgot his GPS? It’s fucking stupid.”
Violetta purses her lips. “Lingua, Vito. I know you’re frustrated, but that’s no excuse.”
“Sorry, Ma,” Vito mumbles, momentarily chastised. “I’m just tired of writing poems about trees, and flowers, and sh-- stuff. Like I know about that crap.”
“You know, sweetheart,” Violetta replies after a moment, “poetry isn’t just about nature. It’s about the world around us, about finding our place in life. It’s about those emotions we feel that are too great to keep inside, like love and longing. Poetry is about the beautiful things that make up this world, Vito.” She nudges him, gesturing toward the blank sheet of paper. “That’s what you need to write about-- something that you find beautiful. Something you want to share with everyone else, because it’s too amazing to keep to yourself. That’s poetry.” She watches him anxiously. “Do you think you can do that?”
Slowly, Vito nods. “Yeah. Maybe... maybe I can.”
***
Vito Corlioni
Period 3
April 23th, 2009
My Poem
Im not two good with writing stuff
& my poetries all way bad
But then my Ma told me to write about bewty
So now I’m relly glad.
Some dudes think trees r prettie.
Some chicks think talkin to Death is hot.
Some other dudes like talkin birds.
But this like Im not.
I don’t think that stuff is cool
Like a cat that don’t wanna chase rats.
I think diferint stuffs awesome
Like how chicks dig vampieer bats.
So Im writing bout what I think is bewtyful
And they arent shapped like cubes
The only thing Id write poems bout
Are a reali bitchin pair of boobs
Some r real & some r fake
Some r big some r small
Some got huge nipples and some r squishy
But I love them all.
So here’s my poem
Btw, I don’t understand metafors
But I wrote about bewtifull things
And that things r boobs (best on hores)
***
Violetta gapes at the paper in her hands. It wasn’t that she expected a masterpiece from Vito. She hadn’t even expected something average. But a poem about breasts? She should have suspected something when he finished the assignment without help and refused to let anyone read it.
Running a hand through her hair, she takes a deep sigh and thinks. There’s no way that she can let her son turn in something like this, not when his grade depends on it. But it’s too late to wake him up and demand he spend the next few hours redoing the entire project. That leaves only one option.
Determination settles across her features as Violetta drops Vito’s poem to the side, reaching for the nearest notebook and pen. She may not be much of a poet, but she’ll be damned if she’s going to leave her son out to dry.
***
Vito Corlioni
Period 3
April 23rd, 2009
In a park down the street sits a lone concrete bench.
Stained.
Chained.
Ignored.
I am drawn to it, an outsider.
Mothers present their children to the world
To glimpse at what will be theirs.
I am the producer, director, and audience of their documentary.
A young child scurries over ladders and slides. He moves too fast for his body.
I sense it before it happens.
He is too young to understand the world around him. He is too young to know the way of things.
He teeters, rocking on the edge of a platform and
Begins his crashing descent.
Like a flash of lightning, a firm hand steadies him; his mother, reeling him to safety.
No doubt enters his mind.
No worry.
He is young enough to believe her lure will always catch him
Like the fish he is.
The mother knows otherwise; knows one day he’ll slip through her grasp and
Escape to sea.
But she will always cast her line for him.
***
Challenge: Star fruit 25. My best wasn’t good enough
Extras: Whipped cream
Word Count: 870
Rating: PG-13 (for language)
Story: Polyfaceted; the title of this story is Go Fish.
Summary: Vito struggles to complete a poetry assignment and receives a little help.
Notes: This is for extra credit in the fall challenge and takes place April 2009, when Vito is fourteen. It's also for my My Treat from sarcasticsra (The myriad ways that Violetta helps her son through school). Hover over any foreign words or phrases for a translation.
***
"Well, then I’ll just fail!" Vito snaps, hurling his pencil against the table and slamming his textbook shut. “I don’t care!”
“Sweetheart...” Violetta sighs and slowly counts to three before reaching for his book and returning to page 247. “That’s not an option. Now come on, let’s take a deep breath and try this again. I’ll help you.”
Vito grumbles a few choice words, snatching a notebook off the table and ripping it open. “I’m never gonna get it. I’m not smart like Mina. I’m just gonna fuck up and fail again.” He presses a pencil against the paper with enough force to snap the tip. “The teachers hate me, anyway. They know I don’t get this poetry shit, why do I have to do this?”
“We all have to,” Gino points out, lifting himself onto the kitchen counter and swinging his legs. “It’s not too bad, anyway. Ma says poems are like songs, but without music.”
“Well, that’s stupid. All of this is stupid. Why the fuck should I care if some ugly chick split a taxi with Death or if some old guy went for a walk in winter and forgot his GPS? It’s fucking stupid.”
Violetta purses her lips. “Lingua, Vito. I know you’re frustrated, but that’s no excuse.”
“Sorry, Ma,” Vito mumbles, momentarily chastised. “I’m just tired of writing poems about trees, and flowers, and sh-- stuff. Like I know about that crap.”
“You know, sweetheart,” Violetta replies after a moment, “poetry isn’t just about nature. It’s about the world around us, about finding our place in life. It’s about those emotions we feel that are too great to keep inside, like love and longing. Poetry is about the beautiful things that make up this world, Vito.” She nudges him, gesturing toward the blank sheet of paper. “That’s what you need to write about-- something that you find beautiful. Something you want to share with everyone else, because it’s too amazing to keep to yourself. That’s poetry.” She watches him anxiously. “Do you think you can do that?”
Slowly, Vito nods. “Yeah. Maybe... maybe I can.”
***
Vito Corlioni
Period 3
April 23th, 2009
My Poem
Im not two good with writing stuff
& my poetries all way bad
But then my Ma told me to write about bewty
So now I’m relly glad.
Some dudes think trees r prettie.
Some chicks think talkin to Death is hot.
Some other dudes like talkin birds.
But this like Im not.
I don’t think that stuff is cool
Like a cat that don’t wanna chase rats.
I think diferint stuffs awesome
Like how chicks dig vampieer bats.
So Im writing bout what I think is bewtyful
And they arent shapped like cubes
The only thing Id write poems bout
Are a reali bitchin pair of boobs
Some r real & some r fake
Some r big some r small
Some got huge nipples and some r squishy
But I love them all.
So here’s my poem
Btw, I don’t understand metafors
But I wrote about bewtifull things
And that things r boobs (best on hores)
***
Violetta gapes at the paper in her hands. It wasn’t that she expected a masterpiece from Vito. She hadn’t even expected something average. But a poem about breasts? She should have suspected something when he finished the assignment without help and refused to let anyone read it.
Running a hand through her hair, she takes a deep sigh and thinks. There’s no way that she can let her son turn in something like this, not when his grade depends on it. But it’s too late to wake him up and demand he spend the next few hours redoing the entire project. That leaves only one option.
Determination settles across her features as Violetta drops Vito’s poem to the side, reaching for the nearest notebook and pen. She may not be much of a poet, but she’ll be damned if she’s going to leave her son out to dry.
***
Vito Corlioni
Period 3
April 23rd, 2009
In a park down the street sits a lone concrete bench.
Stained.
Chained.
Ignored.
I am drawn to it, an outsider.
Mothers present their children to the world
To glimpse at what will be theirs.
I am the producer, director, and audience of their documentary.
A young child scurries over ladders and slides. He moves too fast for his body.
I sense it before it happens.
He is too young to understand the world around him. He is too young to know the way of things.
He teeters, rocking on the edge of a platform and
Begins his crashing descent.
Like a flash of lightning, a firm hand steadies him; his mother, reeling him to safety.
No doubt enters his mind.
No worry.
He is young enough to believe her lure will always catch him
Like the fish he is.
The mother knows otherwise; knows one day he’ll slip through her grasp and
Escape to sea.
But she will always cast her line for him.
***