Tuesday, January 26, 2010

Write about memories underfoot.

“I hate school.”

“Yeah. It’s so boring. The only thing good is recess.”

“Yeah. My tummy feels weird.”

“Did you eat paste again?”

“Yeah. I had to. It was all over my fingers and I was sticking to my desk.”

“Yeah. Hey, look at the trees! They’re pink!”

“Hey, yeah! All that ice looks pink with the sun shining on it like that. I wonder why the grownups grumble so much about winter.”

“Yeah. It’s neat. Listen. The snow is squeaking. It’s like Styrofoam when you bite it.”

“Take that! And that! You bad monsters! I’ll crunch your heads.”

“Yeah. I wish I could get a picture of those trees.”

“Draw a picture when you get home.”

“Nah. Mom tells me to stop making things up.”

“Tell her to look outside then.”

“No. She don’t listen to me. She just tells me to go to my room and stop bothering her. She says she’s tired.”

“Yeah. My dad says that. Most times he yells it at me. I stay away from him.”

“My dad isn’t home much. He sleeps all the time when he is.”

“Yeah. I wish my dad would sleep and not wake up.”

“Like that Rip Van something guy?”

“Yeah. I’d throw a bowling ball at his head.”

“That’s not nice.”

“I don’t care. He yells at me for everything.”

“That’s all grownups do. The teacher was yelling at Tommy today.”

“Yeah. She gets all funny looking when she yells.”

“Yeah! Her face gets all spotty.”

“And her hands go all crazy wild. Waves ‘em all over the place like this.”

“Yeah. But don’t laugh at her. She gets mean then.”

“Yeah. Okay, well, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah. See ya.”