Wednesday, January 28, 2009

YA YA Redo

Post yours here. Remember to focus on using dialogue to say things that you a) don't have the authority to say OR b) don't want to take full responsibility for.


23 comments:

  1. The Incredible Aunt

    I would walk into my grandmother’s house every holiday with my face pointing toward the floor hoping my eyes would not connect with hers. I knew exactly where she would be, on the easy chair facing the television, almost like she hadn’t built up enough energy to move since the last time. Her hand would reach down for the handle on the recliner, trying to shift all 350 pounds of her body weight; she would finally grasp it. As if that wasn’t hard enough, she would use all of the strength she had left to lift her legs, which were almost as big wide as they were long. At the half way mark, she always took a break to recover from the panting and sweat dripping from her bright red face. She rarely continued from there.

    My siblings and I always passed the time by trying to see who could find the separator between her head and body. Black wiry hair pointed in every direction on top of her head complete with a bald spot she unsuccessfully tried to cover in the middle of her scalp. Every time my mother walked into the room my aunt would sneer at her in jealousy.

    “Oh great, here comes Mrs. Popular. Mom!” She would yell, “Here comes your favorite.”

    She envied my mother’s lifestyle and knew hers could have been the same. I never blamed her. Who wouldn’t want more than an unemployed husband who was too lazy to show up for a job interview?

    My siblings and I knew this is why she treated us as dirty little servants. She never asked her own children to do anything when we were around. That was another way to get back at my mother. Eye contact was a mistake because she would take the opportunity to order you to do the cleaning she was too lazy to do.

    “Corey,” my aunt said, “Throw my plate away for me. Nicole, I need you to fetch me the remote and that pillow.”

    Every child in my family knew not to go too close to my aunt in jeopardy of having to give her a refill, get her a plate of food, or even take her socks off. I even remember having to serve food to her son, Mark, when he was twelve years old!

    csalom3@lsu.edu

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  2. “Hello everyone and welcome to Biloxi!” I heard from across the grounded room full of my family’s friends. “Jay that rolled up piece of paper is not a microphone, and you have never been to Biloxi”. His wide eyes looked to me like two huge saucers; those big blues always had a way to remove any embarrassment I was feeling. He was six now and should have known better, but he was different from other kids. My special cousin was just that, special. The substantial scar above his left temple was apparent to whoever was close to him, which seemed to be everyone at that time. As I pulled his arm and told him to follow, he asked “Jamie, do you have your own house and car?” I nodded yes and secretly mumbled “shut up” under my breath. “And you have a job”? “Yes Jay”. “Well you’re an independent woman….. I.N.D.E.P….” With each letter he spelled he got louder and louder. It seemed that every eye in the room was on me and frowns appeared on their faces. “Jay please be quiet”, I whined with a pathetic voice ready to give up. Jay had no concept of the expected behavior at a funeral. My other cousins laughed, while old men with hearing aids shouted “What did he say?”
    Jay then ripped his thick meaty arm from my tight grasp and bolted from my sight as fast a mouse from a cat. My hand flew to cover my face in shame and I wondered how I somehow became in charge of him that day. When finally I reached him, it was too late. He was on top of a chair with his hands flailing in the air as he shouted “Get silly!” My face turned bright red like a sun burnt tomato, and my teeth began to crush against each other as if I was biting down on a horse’s bit. He looked down at me and gave me a toothless smile as he asked me to join him on the chair. Blue haired women started to whisper while deep wrinkles formed between their eyes. “Jay now is not the time, get down”. I said without emotion. My voice had tired as well as my patience. He climbed down from the unsteady chair and grabbed my hand. I looked down and saw his short stubby fingers laced between mine, and I suddenly remembered the day he fell and hit his head. That was the day I knew he was going to be special.

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  3. “Oh, Emily. Where did you find this one? He’s a handsome thing! Get over here, sugar.” my grandmother said to me as I hopelessly attempted to formally introduce her to Jimmy. I just knew this would turn out horribly one way or another. “Granny, this is Jim-“ I tried to say before she pushed me out of the way, shoved her wine filled jelly jar into my hands, and threw herself onto him. He laughed awkwardly and stared at me in a way that clearly meant, “Wow, you were right.” I turned to hug my sister, and when I turned back, I found Jimmy struggling (very politely) to get out of Gran’s tight grasp of his face. With lips puckered and making kissy noises, I knew exactly what was coming, and poor Jimmy obviously did too. Before I could reach them, she had him pinned up against the wall, and he had no way to escape unless I peeled her off of him. I franticly yelled, “Granny stop! He just walked in the door.” Luckily, she backed away laughing as I grabbed his hand and led him into the living room. “I’m sorry,” I mouthed to Jimmy while he laughed, trying to hide his nerves. That was too easy; this was obviously her first glass of wine for the night.

    I warned Jimmy about my crazy grandmother before hand, but there was nothing I could have said to prepare him for the real thing. Even the stories from my childhood of Granny picking up sea shells and stuffing them down the front of her bathing suit. On one of our vacations to Florida, she even pulled out soggy pretzels when I asked her where the snack food was. “Just eat ‘em! There still good!” Or the time she watched me and my sisters and gave us black toast with our dinner. “Just eat it! It’s good for your gums!” she demanded. Not to mention the countless stories of her hitting on every male that walked past her and wasn’t related to her at family gatherings such as this one. Since I was already mortified, I thought that maybe the worst was over.

    Surprisingly, dinner went smoothly. After all, we sat at the kids’ table, which now consisted of anyone who was under the age of 35 since we’re all pretty much grown. However, the same could not be said for after dinner when we all sat in the living room to watch the game. My cousin, who is two years older than me, had brought her month-old baby girl with her to meet the family. Yes, Marion was only 22 and still in college when she got pregnant, but these kinds of things are simply not discussed at events such as Thanksgiving. Apparently, Gran didn’t get that memo. “Look at her! She doesn’t even know how to feed her own child! But how could she, right?” Gran yells to my mother sitting right next to her as Marion was bottle-feeding baby Clair on the couch. “Knock it off Granny. I didn’t ask you for any help,” Marion finally blurted as her face turned to an angry shade of red. “Well, I was just trying to help.” “You ungrateful kids have no respect,” she said loudly to herself, clearly intending for everyone to hear. “You just make a grandma so proud!” Here we go. This is my cue to get Jimmy out of here before he witnesses a family battle. I think he’s gotten a good dose of my family for one night. Bless him.

    Emily Worsham
    eworsh1@lsu.edu

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  4. My brother and sister dread going anywhere in public with my grandfather, Poppy, as much as I do. We are never embarrassed by our grandmother; she’s too sweet, but our grandfather is a different story. My parents would always ditch us on outings with them saying that we should spend more grandchildren-grandparents time with them. We all knew that spending time with Poppy was like having someone pull out five hairs out of their head each minute with him. My mom had the hardest time pretending to be nice to her father-in-law. She doesn’t completely hate him, but he is as stubborn as an ox and always thinks that he is right; he is her biggest pet peeve. After he leaves our house, my mom always mimics him and makes fun of him. I guess it makes her feel better and less stressed about whatever wisecracking comment he just made.

    Taking our seats at the table, the waitress brought us chopsticks and hot towels for our hands. The first words out of Poppy’s mouth were, “I need five forks here; we don’t know how to use these dag-blasted chopsticks. Oh, and bring some of those fried triangle bread things…won-tons or something of the sort.” I quickly followed him up with, “Just one fork is fine, and can we get some edamame.” I had learned to be on my toes with “follow-up’s” to whatever he said otherwise people would think he was an arrogant ass. I nodded to the waitress a nod that she understood as “I’m sorry for him,” and then informed Poppy that this was a Japanese restaurant, not Chinese. “Yeah yeah, there all the same, I don’t know why they don’t have won tons here anyways.” I don’t think he understands the difference between Japanese and Chinese restaurants. Being a veteran of the Korean War, he is not the biggest fan of Asian people and he thinks that they all come from the same culture and have the same customs.

    When it came time to order our sushi I knew that there would be some issue with him, there always was. Naturally, he tried to order for all of us at the table, “Now, they’ll have a few crunchy rolls and…” but I shot him down when he began ordering. I ordered for myself and my brother and sister followed me with their order. It was Poppy’s turn to order for him and my grandmother, “I want one crunchy roll, one California roll, and 2 salmon rolls.” I thought that had gone over well, but then he opened his big mouth again, “Look now, when I say one crunchy roll I don’t want just one piece of a crunchy roll, I want 6.” The waitress looked confused. I felt for her, how many people try telling the waitress or chef how to make something at their own restaurant. “Ok, so you understand? I want 6 crunchy roll pieces, 8 California rolls and 4 pieces of salmon rolls. Ok?” the poor waitress then replied, “So you want 6 orders of crunchy roll, 8 California and 4 Salmon?” Her confused face looked as if Poppy was speaking a foreign language to her. Poppy then got frustrated, “Listen to me, I said a crunchy roll, but 6 pieces, not just one and so-on with the other rolls.” He went on and on until I finally had to take the waitress out of her misery and order for them. As we walked out of the restaurant Poppy was hot and bothered, still mad at the waitress. Pulling out of the parking lot he said, “I don’t know why these Chinese restaurants don’t just hire Americans who can understand me.” I just left him thinking it was a Chinese restaurant because I couldn’t bear listening to the whole story again about how he was right and the “Chinese” waitress was wrong.

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  5. “Santa, Santa I’m so hot right now, I need a Fanta,” were the lyrics my sister, Ashley, began with for her Christmas freestyle two years ago. She had the attention of the five remaining guest’s. “Merry Christmas tonight, look at all the Christmas lights,” as she began to slur her words from all the alcohol she consumed. All one-hundred pounds of her began to stumble as if she didn’t know the layout of her own backyard. Her blue eyes were glazed and turned red from all the cigarette smoke. “Wearing all this apparel,” she said pointing to herself, “and I’m singing this Christmas carol.” Everyone’s eyes were watered and my stomach hurt from laughing when she finished.

    When I was talking to my new girlfriend on the phone, I guess my sister decided she wanted to have her first conversation with her then and there. Ashley walked over, grabbed the phone and said, “Hey Taylor, isn’t that your name?” I couldn’t imagine what was going on in Taylor’s mind as my sister interrogated her for about five minutes. “You better not hurt my brother you brown-eyed Barbie,” she said as she handed me the phone.

    I was walking back to my car when Ashley yelled from her front door, “Can’t wait to see you again and tell Taylor I’m not completely insane!” It is safe to say there was never a dull moment that Christmas.

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  6. I told my mom I did not take that money. I said “Randy and I” when she asked me who was in the house. “If he took it I swear!” Mom said. She paused for a second realized that Randy was the culprit. I can’t believe Randy did that, after all, he’s the older brother he should know better. My mom went to him and simply asked, “Why did you take it.” Randy immediately gave his self away and said “I did not steal that money.” An along waited incident for Mom because she didn’t like Randy. She always said “I’m glad he’s not my son,” Dad had Randy before they met. After this my mom said “I’ve had it with all his bullshit.” She decided to kick him out. Without saying a word Randy immediately packed up his things and moved with a friend. Mom mumbled under her breath “Damn boy worst than those Fredrick gangsters around the corner, just stealing and killing everybody,” as Randy walked out. Two weeks later a knock on the door rang throughout the house, I opened the door and Dad shouted “I’m back!” He just arrived home coming from Texas on a business conference. Dad hugged my sister and I and waited for Randy to come down the stairs late as usual. When Randy never came he asked us where Randy was and we told him that Mom kicked Randy out.


    Dad immediately stormed to my mother and asked what the problem was. Mom explained but he really didn’t want to hear it. He said that Randy was his son and he should have been involved with the decision of kicking Randy out. He asked where was Randy living and Mom told him with a friend. “Not those thugs that we have been trying to keep him from, right?” Mom gave a carefree shrug and said “he’ll be fine” and continued watching television. During dinner we could feel the tension at the table as we ate. No one said a word. Dad kept looking at Mom shaking his head. Mom just rolled her eyes. After ten, suspense fill minutes Mom finally said, “will you get over it!” Dad threw his fork down, put his jacket on, and went out the door. Dad pulled up at the friend’s house where Randy was allegedly living. No one was home; he pulled up the block and saw three kids standing on the corner. He noticed that one kid was Randy’s friend. “Where is Randy?” The Kid shrugged his shoulders. Then one of the other kids said, “Who Big Randy? They call him BR now, he rolling with the Fredricks.”


    Dad eyes got real big and red. He rushed home and told Mom the news. She unsurprisingly said “He was going to end up in a gang anyway, you always gone on your so called business trips, and he’s not my son to take care of.” They fused their selves to sleep but, Mom felt a little guilty and went out that night to look for Randy. She saw Randy and hollered his name. He looked at her and walked off. Mom shouted “fine go out there and get yourself killed, I don’t care, I only came out here because your father is looking for you!” She went home and went to sleep. Forty-five minutes later Dad was awoke a phone call. I was up playing my game when I heard, “Yes this is me, Yes that’s my son, what! No! God! I’m on my way.” Mom and Dad left and went to the local hospital. Randy was shot in a drive by shooting. Doctors did all they could but was unable to save him. He was D.O.A. Mom and I sat in the waiting room while Dad went completely crazy in the hospital. Mom whispered in my ear “This is why you should always listen to Mommy, you don’t want to end up like that fool.” I honestly didn’t know what was going on because I was three weeks from my fifth birthday.

    John "JAY" Brignac
    jbrign4@lsu.edu

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  7. Family get-togethers are always a fun time in my family. There's always the sweet scent of fresh baked bread along with a huge suculent roast. My Aunt Goo, as I call her, always takes control of the kitchen out our house when these functions take place. She's always yelling, "You kids get out of the kitchen" to us or "Don't touch that caserole until its on your plate" to my father who always tries to sneak an early taste in before the meal. My aunt Goo and my Father get into this situation at every gathering that we have. My mother is always in charge of the homemade desserts, in which we finish our meals as quick as possibly to get a slice of.

    I always saw Aunt Goo in the kitchen at these events, so at this one particular event I wanted to get outdoors and play with us kids. I always got a rousing game of baseball together with my cousins, so I figured that this would a great way to get her involved. "Aunt Goo," I yelled as I came running into the kitchen. "What Colby Jack, what," she jokingly answered. "You never play with us, and I got a game a game of baseball going just for you." She explained how she was much too busy at the time, but I persuaded her to come outside for a bit.

    "Here Aunt Goo, you can bat first first, and I'll be your catcher," I told her. "Well how polite," she said. My cousin Eddie was pitching and gave her a pretty hard fastball for a nine year old. "That was much too fast for me Edward," she told my cousin. I suggested that she step back alittle towards me so she'd give the ball more time to get there. "Ready?", said Eddie. Aunt Goo just gave him a nod. Eddie gave her a soft under-handed toss up. When Aunt Goo Pulled the bat back to swing, the bat hit me in the head, and the only thing that I remember is seeing blood on my Aunt Goo's white cooking apron while we were in the car praying on our way to the hospital. The doctor told Aunt Goo, "This boy's going to be just fine", and I got a couple of stitches to the noggin. Most importantly I got Aunt Goo to play with us kids later and got some of her delicious roast beef.

    Johnathan "Colby" Coghlan
    jcoghl1@lsu.edu

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  8. My grandfather refused to eat at any restaurant unless it was Shonny’s. Whenever the family went out to eat, he’d sit down and if the waiter hadn’t taken his order within five minutes he’d get up and declare that he’d wait in the car.
    He’d always say things like, “I’ll be damned if I’m gonna wait an hour to get some food.”
    Many times my grandmother would get up after five minutes and we would follow and end up at my grandfather’s favorite restaurant. I don’t remember how old I was but one day that this happened, my mother told my grandmother to sit back down since the food would be there any minute and we ended up ordering my grandfather a burger to go.
    One day I actually got the nerve to ask my mother, “Why in the hell does he refuse to just sit down and eat at any other restaurant?”
    She told me, “Oh he’s just stuck in his ways.”
    Stuck in his ways really didn’t seem an adequate way to rationalize why a 72 year old man chose to only eat at one particular restaurant. If I had to guess, I’d say sometimes it’s just easier to be stuck in your ways then to try any kind of change.

    Blake McDuffie
    bmcduf1@lsu.edu

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  9. The drive to Grammie’s house consisted of my brother and I counting the light posts alongside I-12 eastbound (243) from the O’Neal entrance ramp until we got off at the Pumpkin Center exit, right before Hammond, LA, or fighting over which line in the middle seat was the divider between the kingdoms of Rightsideopia and Leftsideopolis. The ride was only half an hour long, but the wars between the two superpowers of the continent Car lasted an eternity.
    Grammie was my dad’s mother. Upon arriving at her house, we would all sit down and eat dinner. She would always make us food that tasted fine, after I loaded it with salt and pepper or Tony’s or butter. She was from Maryland, the only state I know that can take a Louisiana blue crab and devoid it of all flavor.
    More often than not, regardless of how bland the food was, my brother and I would eat everything on our plates. “Both of you are very well behaved boys!” my grandmother would exclaim. Our reward was a popsicle. A frozen block of cranapple juice with a toothpick stuck in it. The only time our other grandparents would tell us something like that was if we didn’t start a fight with each other, which was rare, and never rewarded us for accomplishing this feat.
    “Goodbye, my babies!” my mother would tell us after dinner. She would give us a hug and a kiss. “We’ll pick you up in a week,” my father would say.
    “You conniving bastards are going to leave us here again?!” was the look my brother would give them every time they left us there. Both of us knew exactly what we would be doing for the rest of the week.
    “Who wants to play Clean the Gutters tomorrow morning after breakfast?” was usually the first thing Grammie would ask us as she tucked us into bed that night. Just as we would be done with Clean the Gutters, Grammie would announce the next game, “Organize the Tool Shed would be really exciting wouldn’t it?” Fill the Bird Feeders was most likely next.
    “Guess how many pinecones are in the yard, children,” Grammie would say near the end of fall. My brother and I rolled our eyes at each other and then complied with her request.
    “65?” I would guess.
    “A million?” was his guess.
    “Well I don’t know why don’t you find out?” she would say. Grammie lived on three acres of land with many trees. There was only one magnolia. As we got older, my brother and I called it Grammie’s Concentration Camp.
    My grandmother was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer when I was in 6th grade. We made trips to Pumpkin Center three to four times a month that year; the light poles were left uncounted and the superpowers of Car had signed a treaty. After she passed away, my brother and I weren’t quite sure why my parents were fighting more than normal or why people were bringing us food that had never met Grammie.
    “At least we don’t have to go back to Grammie’s Concentration Camp,” my brother told me.

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  10. It all began when my father jokingly said, “Jesus! Woman, I can hear your stomach growl from here.” We could tell he was in a mood. She retorted without even having to think about it, “Well if somebody would feed me every now and again, we wouldn’t have this problem.” This went on for five minutes, before I finally pulled up to a drive through. A line formed immediately due to a car staring at the menu as if it were foreign. “Pull up! The menu hasn’t changed in fifty freaking years,” the infamous Riot Rick shouted to the car in front of us as he leaned over me and almost out the window. The only thing restraining him from jumping out was his seatbelt.

    This was nothing new to us. Actually, this was him on his best behavior. After the incident at Burger King, my mom called, “Rick, could you please pick up a present for your Godchild? I swear to God, if you make me…” My father cut her off before she could finish and purred into his cell phone, “Baby, don’t you worry. I know you’re stressed with work, but I’ve got this. Plus, they’ll be lucky to have sexiest man alive enter their store. Get ready for tonight, beautiful.” My sister and I gagged a little. He always did this. We think he probably does this not only for brownie points but just to make our lives a little more painful. Regardless, we headed to Target.

    We quickly chose the noisiest toy in the store. We hated our aunt, and this was our subtle way of telling her. As my sister and I stood patiently in the 20 items or less line, Riot Rick decided it was time for action. He began to loudly count the items in the old granny’s basket before us. “Twenty- two. Twenty-three, and oh my! Look at that! Twenty-four!” We had been in the line for approximately ten minutes, before he started making comments. When the fragile young blonde began scanning our items, he said, “You know what would be awesome?” The girl opened her mouth as if a sound was about to project, but he did not give her a chance to respond, “If you didn’t let people with more than 20 items go through your line.” My sister and I’s faces were flushed, and I could feel sweat droplets on the top of my lip. “Really, Dad? I mean really,” my sister said. He ignored her and kept going, “Why even put up these signs if you’re not going to follow them. Heck, why do we even have rules? That is what’s wrong with society these days…” His voice trailed off as we began to run. In my hand was the bag with the toy obnoxiously singing the alphabet, and even that was more pleasing to our ears than Riot Rick’s voice.

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  11. On the way to Florida with my aunt Lisa and the rest of my family couldn’t have been worse. Going through a living hell was an understatement. I have never been around my aunt Lisa and only heard stories of the way she behaved. Knowing from other people’s experiences, I knew this would be a long vacation.
    “Watch your speed,” she would say every time my father would exceed the speed limit by a single mile per hour. She’s the pickiest person I have come to known in my entire life. It was our first family vacation and all I could hope for is it being the last. Wishing I could be in the other vehicle with my little brothers and my hilarious uncle, I reached for my CD player in hopes to escape from her constant complaints.
    “If it’s not good music, you shouldn’t be listening to it,” she said. “Cursing is all you kids know these days,” as she snatched away my headphones.
    The ride was finally over and me escaping that torture box on wheels, felt like I was being born a new person. Unloading the luggage, I looked over at my younger brothers who looked as if they had an amazing trip. I hated to lose to anyone, especially my brothers, so I lied to them telling them about how much fun I had.
    “Carry my bags upright boy,” Lisa said. “I have very fragile things in there.” The only thing I could imagine was glass vials with eyeballs in them that she used for her witchcraft. Once inside, the only thing I could think of was finding the bed and relaxing. Finally finding the room I had wanted made the day a little better for me. I began to unpack my things until suddenly Lisa came into the room. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.
    “I’ll need this room because the sun rises on this side of the house,” she said. I wanted to throw her luggage out of the window but I kept my composure and left the room. Later that day we all made plans to go to a nearby carnival that was close to the resort we were staying at. Once there, we broke into groups and unfortunately I was matched with Lisa. Her behavior seemed to change once we were surrounded by the carnival lights.
    “Want to ride that,” she asked as she pointed to the biggest roller coaster in the park. I looked at her with a confused expression and before I could answer, she grabbed my hand and dragged me to the line. Once one the actual ride, she was the only scream I could hear. Afterwards we moved through the park at a high pace that was even a little much for me. She behaved like a child and it gave me a whole new perspective of her. She wasn’t bad after all and I actually enjoyed her company. That was the first night of our week long vacation and it was a great week. My aunt Lisa is definitely my favorite of my aunts and we are always in touch with each other.

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  12. Staring out the car door window I wait patiently for the ride to be over as the music from my headphones calms me. I always hated these rides. Tylertown, Mississippi. The single most boring place I spend parts of my childhood visiting. Why? Why do we have to go visit him? Can't we leave the grumpy old Frenchman alone? He doesn't even like us. Pulling up the driveway, I notice the familiar land, occupied with a small house for one, a giant garage, and cows that sprinkle over 150 acres as if they were candy on an ice cream cone. Ice cream, mmmm that sounds good. Hopefully he will bring us somewhere to eat, and treat me to some ice cream. Then I wouldn't mind him much.


    
My mind snaps back into reality as my mom hops back in the car from opening the gate. I know she doesn't like coming either, but it's her father, she has to respect him.

    “Now remember girls, behave. I don’t want to hear any complaining while we are here.”

    I keep my headphones on as Mom recites the rules of behavior to my two sisters and I. Blah blah blah. It's all the same to me. I wish my dad still came with us. He knew just how we felt and I'm sure he felt the same, if not more. He never did get along too well with Grandpere. I wouldn't either if the old bastard tried telling me how to raise a family, when he nearly destroyed his own. My mom is so much happier now that she doesn't have to obey the strict rules he laid on her. It was never easy growing up in her shoes, being the only girl, having your father judge you left and right, never letting you do anything independently. God I'm glad she's happy now. 


    
Stepping out of the car I wonder what he's going to say this time.

    “Ah! Beautés!! Que belles jeunes beautés nous avons ici! Non ? Oh, aucun bien, aucun bien...”

    As cool as it is that he speaks to us in French, it still bothers me knowing how big of a hypocrite the man is. To the public eye, he is the sweetest old man that will sing you foreign melodies that woo many. A religious man. More religious than any other being I know, always following Catholic Church with whatever cynical views they put on society. His house is full of crosses, pictures, books, anything that has Catholicism and dust all over it. The whole cover he puts on makes me sick, knowing that inside that 86 year old body is really the devil himself. How could you pretend to be such a good person when in your past you threatened and beat the only two important women in your life-- Mom and Grandmere. I wish she were alive, I never did get to meet her. Parts of me think he did it, he killed her. But I can't assume what I don't know, so that mystery will be left in the dark. I step onto the porch and stare at the door as the doorbell chimes. I take a deep breath. The door opens. Here we go; hopefully this will be over soon. Oh no, he wants a kiss...

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  13. 7 a.m. Time to Wake Up
    “Waaaaake, waaaake, waaaake……….” Is all I heard as I turned my body 180 degrees from what sounded like a screeching voice coming from my alarm clock. “Awake poor girl, awake child,” is what I heard before opening my eyes to my worst nightmare. It was exactly 7 a.m. and the sun had just creped from its slumber, painting the skies with a translucent mix of red and orange; a picture perfect sunrise. Out of nowhere a small, pale, freckled hand, with skin that seemed to have forgotten to snap back to the muscle grabbed my throat. As the supply of oxygen to my lungs was reduced to a minimum, I began to sweat profusely. For fear of death, my eyes scanned the parameters for an escape route, but slowly I came to realized that I could not control my own mind.
    Again the owner of the claws with ragged skin spoke: “Child, don’t try to move okay, you’re hurt pretty bad, and you are losing a lot of blood.” Just like that, the nightmare began. Somewhere in my mind, I came to comprehend that I must have been in some sort of accident. With what seemed like a headlight, a blaze of white light shined on my eyes and as I tried to look beyond the light, the blaze intensified thus causing tears and burns to the soft tissues on the cornea. I tried to speak in order to have the blazing light shut off, but I could not manage to speak and soon discovered that the strangulation by the claws where to stop the bleeding from my throat. With that I began to cry. Suddenly I gained strength when a second hand reached my throat, amounting the pressure to an unsustainable level. With fist clinched and ready to pound, I punched the fairly visible bodies to whom the hands belonged to. I must have thrown a punch or two before I heard, “Ahhhhh, Anita it is me, Rosita.” I awoke to find that it was my sister trying to wake me up because it was 7 a.m. and time to wake up.
    “Were you having one of your delusional nightmares again? Do you see what you have done? My eye is swelling.” And I saw a flood of tears flow from her good eye as she stood shaking and waiting for an apology. “I am sorry I was………” and my heart broke as she said, “You need serious therapy, and fast. I am going to tell Papa about this. I will not take any more of this abuse.” With that I knew that I could no longer let my nightmares get out of hand. Today, as I write, it is 7 a.m. and time to leave for my psychologist’s appointment, a move towards a new me.
    mtati1@lsu.edu

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  14. Walking home from school, I saw five cars squished in our narrow driveway. “Dad’s friends must be visiting again,” I said to myself. As I approached the door, I heard the guys laughing and clapping their hands. “Me winner!” someone roared. “This is not my day,” reply someone in a melancholy voice, “I haven’t won a single round.” I opened the door, greeted them, and gave them a bow. Four grey hair, skinny guys were sitting at our dinner table and on the far right was my dad. My dad is a gambler, a very cunning and optimistic gambler. He can gamble day and night if my mom ever allowed it. His brown, bum looking wallet is always filled with one dollar bills. “I only bet a dollar, never more,” he used to tell me. I walked to my room and went to sleep. Several hours later, I heard a loud commotion at the door. “It‘s getting late. I have to go” said one of my dad’s friend as he grabbed his metal cane. “You want to play again on Saturday?” questioned my cheerful dad. They all nodded and drove away. “Binh, are you busy?” he asked. “Help me clean up before mom comes home!” he ordered before I could answer him. It was time to get rid of the evidences.
    Dad and I cleaned the dinning table, swept the floor, and did everything to clean the crime scene. The house looked pretty clean. We didn’t want to clean it too much because that would make her a little suspicious. We sat on the couch and smiled. “Dad, you hungry?” I wondered as my stomach growled. At that moment, our smiles turned into us pulling our hairs out. Dad forgot to cook dinner! Mom specifically told him to cook dinner. “Tick tock, tick tock,” mocked our evil clock, “You’re running out of time, tick tock!”
    “Why do you have to be so big?” whined my lazy dad. He grabbed the chicken by the wing, threw it violently on the butchering board and mutilated it like a madman. Chicken skin and blood were rockets. They bombarded our spotless kitchen. Chopped vegetables were tossed into the caldron and mixed hasty. Dad sighed in relief, “Smells good.” The house was getting a second clean. Suddenly there was a knock at the door, mom was home. "Binh, get the fried chicken from the car." mom ordered. "Oh honey, you cooked," she said, "I thought you forgot." "Hehe, why would I forget?" dad grinned. We all ate the fried chicken and no one ate Dad's chaotic mystery dish. "So, how much money did you win?" asked mom right out of the blue. Our faces erupted in astonishment. "Eight dollars!" grinned Dad. Well, Dad got busted for the ninety-fifth time. “We'll trick her one day,” whisper the cheap gambling addict.

    Binh Doan
    bdoan1@lsu.edu

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  15. My sister, Laura, is an extreme nut case. That is basically the long and short of it. I'm talking this bitch has to have some sort of head problem. I mean she's my own sister and i love her to death but good lord. To give you a good idea of what I'm talking about let's cite a couple of examples. The first one is the way she drives. Now all of the male readers have probably ridden in the vehicale with a young female driver and thought to themselves, " man I really don't think I am going to live through this." Of course you think this to yourself because young female drivers are terrible drivers to say the least. I can't even begin to think of how many times i've heard, " Brandon! Oh my God! What the hell is this person thinking! Why won't they go!" I really couldn't tell you why they won't go Laura I'm not a mind reader. Her excessive road rage is so unnecessary that it usually leads to a fit of hitting the passenger in her car. " Laura what the hell dude chill it's not my fault you suck and follow people too close and have to slam on your brakes constantly to avoid accidents." Another reason she is nuts is her wonderful little quirk called split personalities. Seriously, this girl shifts from happy and playful to Satan's left nut on a dime like a damn professional riding lawn mower. Imagine joking around with someone one second like, " Man those boots look terrible on you why would you wear something like that," just as a joke and we both laugh and then she's like, " You're such an asshole!" I seriously don't know where it comes from. I couldn't even begin to tell you how many times I have been in awe at the kind of bipolar crap she's pulled on me. I don't know though, maybe she's just this way around me. For her sake, I hope so.

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  16. Quite a few years back, to the days when weekends consisted of sleepovers, sports practices, bowling and movies; I can remember numerous sleepovers at my cousin, Sarah’s house. My aunt used to tell me, “Child, this is your home away from home”. After all the countless nights I had roamed around her house, one would assume I would have come to know her family pretty well, but when asked how my uncle was doing; I would answer, “I can’t even remember the last time I saw him outside of the kitchen or not staring into a newspaper”. After one interesting late night I found out a little more about my uncle’s mysterious personality, or lack thereof.

    It was about 10:00pm on a Saturday night, and Sarah and I were in her room gossiping about boys or school or something of the sort. My uncle quietly bumped the door open and through a forced mumble he asked, “Y’all want to go see a movie?” Confused and fumbling for a response, I whispered to Sarah, “ Who leaves to go to a movie at 10:00?” She leaned over, her voice drifting in and out, and said, “He does…all the time. I think he’s gone crazy”. After staring blankly at his emotionless face for a few moments Sarah asked, “Dad, do you even know what you’re going see?” “No” he responded, “just gonna drive up there and see if anything good’s playing”. By this time we had realized neither of us had anything better to do. We accepted the invite, and made our way to the van, not knowing what to expect.

    Once we were settled into the van it took us a solid 20 minutes to travel an ordinarily 5-10 minute trip. I had always heard my mother complain about him, saying, “That man would be late for his own funeral if it was up to him”. Now I had first handedly experienced what she meant. Throughout the ride we were somewhat silent, not even the faintest sound of music, until Sarah posed the question, “Can a policeman pull you over for going too slow?” After that comment, I was hysterical, but my uncle didn’t seem phased. It was at that moment, my mom’s remarks, saying, “He is about as interesting as a brick wall” were confirmed and understood.

    Lauren Braud

    Lbraud6@lsu.edu

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  17. "Sarah Fay, what a mess you are" said my grandomther sent here straight from Italy. As a typical Italian family we are always loud and obnoxious, especially around the dinner table. I know i have to be ready for the typhoon of madness and screaming that always seems to accompany our Sunday dinners as a family. "Sit up straight, you look like a ball of mozzarella sitting in the hot sun! Now get up and do some chores and help out!" is the first words i hear as i just get there and take my seat. Knowing that what my grandmother had just yelled at me was contradictory in itself, I kept my mouth shut because I knew it would be an extremely risky, and not to mention possibly deadly move if i were to make a smart remark to an Italian elder.

    I got up, and right as i stood, once again i heard that obscene noise that i guess you could call a voice say "where are you going im not done talkin' to you duro intestato (which means hard headed in Italian, and apparently a this has been my name all my life)!" Confused, yet again, because she contradicted herself for the second time in about three seconds i gave her a look of concern. She had been getting old and i thought maybe this was Alzheimer's Syndrome starting to set in. Then, like a car accident i didn't see coming i was hit by noise. She looked at me and said "lookie here young one, if you want to survive as long as I have, you best stop thinking im going mental when I contradict myself!" What the hell,how did she know that? I was only being concerned for her and that what had just happened was out of place.

    Once again, I went along my way, creeped out more than ever now that i have a psychic granny. I walked into the kitchen still trying to wrap my thoughts around what just happened, when my Aunt bellows out "hey, get your lazy butt in this kitchen and fix the table, and stop thinking that just because your talking to your grandma, doesn't mean its going to get you out of your share of work!"

    Really? Is she serious? And before I could even finish that thought, she screamed out "and YES! I'm serious!" I just turned myself around and walked to the overly long table we traditionally sit at. I was thinking, Sarah, your whole family has ESP and your going to go crazy if you don't keep it together! as i started setting the table. As if I should have known better, my cousin walks in the room and screams out "I'm hungry set the table faster so we can get this show on the road!" Again i thought... really? Why is this family always ragging on me?

    That was it. I finally said my weighing two cents, which to this day i can't remember what I said because before I knew it, i got slapped across the face by my mother as she yelled out "duro intestato child!!! Are you feeling ok? because if so I'll change that real quick for opening that mouth!" Took me less than half a second to get it: keep my mouth shut no matter what around this insane Italian family.

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  18. Ever since I was born, as much as possible, we make our family pilgrimage to Alabama to visit who my sister and I have always referred to as the "fun cousins." Our two favorite relatives, Michilyn and Laura, had a talent for turning a simple day at an Alabama farm into an adventure of epic proportions. A spare cot in my great-grandmother's room, with a lot of swaying and the chilling narration of cousin Michilyn, became a great wooden ship sailing to unknown lands, and the floor became the looming, and deadly, depths of the ocean. It didn't hurt our image of Michilyn that her favorite thing to do was moon our great-grandmother, Mama Ruth.

    "Woo Ruthie Baby!," she would cry out, shaking her pale white bottom in the seventy year old woman's face. Mama Ruth always laughed and swatted her hand around in front of her face. "Oh Michilyn!," she would say in her sweet Alabama accent, only mock-annoyed that Michilyn had managed to corner her with a full moon yet again.

    Now that we're all grown up, Michilyn not-so-surprisingly became a teacher, the most hilarious teacher on the planet judging from the stories I heard last time I visited. My favorite was when she told about a field trip she took with her eighth grade students:

    "So I was sittin' up at the front of the bus and one of the lil boys from my class came and was trying to be all flirty with me. So he puts his lil scrawny arm around me and says, "Mrs. Brown, we should really go out together sometime." So I just rolled my eyes and was like "Alright yeah whatever you lil turd" you know. So anyway, I finally start to get aggravated and you know I really shouldnt have done this, but I just lifted up my butt and farted right on this boy's leg! Yeah, I left a hot place on his shorts."

    Of course by this time we were all rolling around gasping for air laughing at the thought of Michilyn actually letting a hot one rip on this kid's leg. I think it pretty much goes without saying why she's my favorite cousin. I'm glad she's out there teaching other kids now, because she was the best teacher I've had so far in my life.

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  19. Today is Saturday, and it is a Saturday that only comes once a year. “Ding Dong- Ding Dong- Ding Dong- Ding Dong- Ding Dong- Ding Dong” is the noise I hear coming from the door bell that has been ringing for the past two minutes. I look up at the ceiling from my bed like I always do on this annual occasion and shout “Somebody please get the damn door!” Of course, no one responds and I still hear the “Ding Dong- Ding Dong- Ding Dong- Ding Dong- Ding Dong” sound soaring through the house.

    Being the first to volunteer, I rush to the door and open it. I look at the over energized elderly woman still ringing the door bell and say “Grandma, you get here earlier and earlier each year.” With saliva misting from her mouth, “Have all of you gone deaf or is the doorbell broken? What took you so long to open the door?” She grabs my forearm and gives me my first order “Go help your grandfather unload the van.” My grandparents live in Rockport, Illinois and they make an annual epic trip on a Saturday once a year to visit us for the weekend as well as hauling an overwhelming load of old junk in their monstrous astro van expecting us to take whatever they bring when most of it should be tossed in the garbage. My mom tells me every year before they come “we’re just being nice so that we don’t hurt their feelings; as soon as they leave, we can throw it all in the trash.”

    “Grab that box out of the front seat, why don’t ya?” my grandfather speaking to me, “your grandma put some chocolate candy in there for you, so make sure you eat all of it.” I open the box and see Hershey bars with the lion king movie advertised on it. “Grandpa, these chocolate bars are from 1995,” I tell him. “So” he says. “It’s 2006, so the means these are eleven years old; I’m not eating them” as I disgustedly inform him. “I don’t see how that is a problem; chocolate is chocolate” he tells me. Grabbing boxes and hauling them into the house, sorting through them whether they were boxes of used pens that had run out of ink, broken old toys, strange smelling deodorants, random odd-looking adhesive bandages that I had never seen before, old magazines, and fragments of newspapers is exhausting. I toss the last empty box after sorting all the ancient items inside it and my grandma walks over to me, places her arm on my shoulder and says “What a lucky boy you are; you’re getting all this treasure and I’m not even dead yet.”

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  20. "Dad, you going to put some pants on tonight?" I asked my father before my friends were supposed to show up for a Saturday night poker game. My dad worked out of the house and usually made him self comfortable in his office wearing nothing more than a t-shirt and his underwear. It wasn't uncommon for a guest of mine to walk in to find the old man, pantsless, in the kitchen grabbing a snack.
    That particular Saturday I made sure he was fully clothed before my guests arrived. He greeted each one with a "What's up?" or a "How ya been man?" They would each walk past saying nothing more than "I'm doing good. How are you?" He usually didn't make my face turn red as long as he had his pants on. I figured that night would be pretty normal.
    The game had been going just fine, and the old man kept pretty much to himself. He would walk by from time to time and try to act like he was one of the guys. "Anyone catch that Cubs game late night?" he would ask as if anyone there was actually a fan of the Chicago baseball team. "Actually, I did Mr. Calvin," surprising replied Connor, one of my friends who knew my dad fairly well. "I just don't know when they're going to get their shit together," he rambled on for a few minutes in that manner. Nothing too bad.
    The night went on just fine, until for some reason, Calvin decided he would take out the red paint brush and slap it right on my face. "Damn Connor, don't you hate when you drop a huge one load and you can't get the toilet to flush?" he asked aloud in front of the group of ten guys. "Uhh, yeah, that sucks," he replied with a bit of a chuckle. I just laughed off myself adding a little "Dad, what the hell?"

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  21. Every time a holiday comes around, I know exactly why my parents start to whisper furtively amongst themselves. With holidays come crazy relatives, and visiting those relatives. My mother’s mother is that relative. The house phone begins to ring off the hook, occupying most of my mother’s time.
    “What time are ya’ll coming,” Maw-Maw Joan yakked into the receiver.
    My Maw-Maw Joan is a 70 percent Italian woman, born and raised in St. Bernard- the accent is hard to miss.
    “Probably sometime around 12, Mom,” says my mother reluctantly, rolling her eyes.
    “Oh, well I’m going to cook my special yams for ya’ll…Cassie’s favorite,” Maw-Maw responded, clearly happy with herself.
    One visit my sister made the sad mistake to mention to our grandmother that her yams tasted good. A few days later, the phone rang again, only to be ignored and left for the answering machine.
    “Beep… ‘Hey Pam, it’s your Mama. I was just going to ask you what time ya’ll were coming and if you wanted me to make something. I was thinking about making Cassie’s favorite yams. You know she always tells me she loves those yams…” she trailed on retelling Cassie’s dumbass mistake, only to be cut off by the machine.
    The whole household tended to get tenser and meaner as the visits got nearer. Finally my dad would sit me and my sisters down for our annual pep talk the night before we had to go.
    “Okay, girls” my father said sympathetically, “We’re going there for 12 and we won’t stay any longer than 2. I have shit to do.”
    My sister and I knew about obligation, and this was the ultimate one. We all piled into one car, fully equipped with IPods and books, ready for the three hour drive to Mississippi. My father’s mother hated Mississippi. We never knew why, but I think that Maw -Maw Joan is the reason. The drive was never always that far, of course. Maw-Maw Joan was a nomad at heart. She and my grandfather, just since his retirement, have lived in at least three, completely different houses in completely different cities. No one knew what went through their mind, but we expected this of her. She lived for fifty years in the house in which my mother and aunts grew up. As soon as my grandfather retired and Maw-Maw’s sewing business dwindled, they sold the house and bought a fixer upper house trailer, needing serious maintenance. The trailer was in Lacombe, Louisiana, a god-forsaken town in the heart of Hickville. There was no cell phone signal any where close and the neighbors lived a mile away.
    “We like the fresh air in the trailer better than the house. Plus Charlie saw some blacks moving in down the street, Maw Maw Joan said. She and my grandfather were both extremely racist, even though both their parents came off the boat.
    “That house in St. Bernard was too big. This way me and your Paw-Paw can relax until we kick the bucket. So ya’ll don’t have to worry about us.”
    She always knew how to make the grandkids uncomfortable. She wanted her death to be a musical. Number one in the box office.
    A couple weeks later, when my Paw-Paw hurt himself trying to dig a pond for Maw-Maw Joan, they moved again. This time to small two, bedroom condo in Diamondhead, a retirement subdivision, fully equipped with a golf course and plastic flamingos. Often were times when Cassie and I would ride around the neighborhood in my grandfather’s golf cart, waving unenthusiastically at all the other retirees. Those trips on the golf cart were our escape from Maw-Maw Joan.
    “Ya’ll are always on that thing. Why can’t you sit with me and help me cut coupons?” She would ask, annoyingly.
    “Right, Maw-Maw, that’s what I want to do with my day,” Cassie would say. Cassie didn’t have any patience for our grandmother, and everyone knew it. When their arguments would get so bad, I would have to act as the referee, calling flags and unsportsmanlike conduct.
    No visit with my Maw-Maw Joan was ever boring, but you couldn’t help to yearn for a sense of normalcy. But then again, who is normal?

    Cady Carreras
    ccarre2@lsu.edu

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  22. Staring out the car door window I wait patiently for the ride to be over as the music from my headphones calms me. I always hated these rides. Tylertown, Mississippi. The single most boring place I spend parts of my childhood visiting. Why? Why do we have to go visit him? Can't we leave the grumpy old Frenchman alone? He doesn't even like us. Pulling up the driveway, I notice the familiar land, occupied with a small house for one, a giant garage, and cows that sprinkle over 150 acres as if they were candy on an ice cream cone. Ice cream, mmmm that sounds good. Hopefully he will bring us somewhere to eat, and treat me to some ice cream. Then I wouldn't mind him much.

    
My mind snaps back into reality as my mom hops back in the car from opening the gate. I know she doesn't like coming either, but it's her father, she has to respect him.

    “Now remember girls, behave. I don’t want to hear any complaining while we are here.”

    I keep my headphones on as Mom recites the rules of behavior to my two sisters and I. Blah blah blah. It's all the same to me. I wish my dad still came with us. He knew just how we felt and I'm sure he felt the same, if not more. He never did get along too well with Grandpere. I wouldn't either if the old bastard tried telling me how to raise a family, when he nearly destroyed his own.

    “That old son of a bitch has no idea what he’s talking about… Damned fool is what he is, nothing but a damned old fool…” Dad would mutter.

    My mom is so much happier now that she doesn't have to obey the strict rules he laid on her. It was never easy growing up in her shoes, being the only girl, having your father judge you left and right, never letting you do anything independently. God I'm glad she's happy now. 


    
Stepping out of the car I wonder what he's going to say this time.

    “Ah! Beautés!! Que belles jeunes beautés nous avons ici! Non ? Oh, aucun bien, aucun bien...”

    As cool as it is that he speaks to us in French, it still bothers me knowing how big of a hypocrite the man is. To the public eye, he is the sweetest old man that will sing you foreign melodies that woo many. A religious man. More religious than any other being I know, always following the Catholic Church with whatever cynical views they put on society. His house is full of crosses, pictures, books, anything that has Catholicism and dust all over it. The whole cover he puts on makes me sick, knowing that inside that 86 year old body is really the devil himself. How could you pretend to be such a good person when in your past you threatened and beat the only two important women in your life-- Mom and Grandmere.

    I wish she were alive, I never did get to meet her. Parts of me think he did it, he killed her. But I can't assume what I don't know, so that mystery will be left in the dark, never to be asked, nor brought up in any conversation with any of my family. Mom always tells me I am the spitting image of her. Man I wish I could have met her. Maybe things would be different if she were still here. Maybe I would have actually liked making these trips to Tylertown, MS. Maybe, just maybe.

    I step onto the porch and stare at the door as the doorbell chimes. I take a deep breath. The reeking stench of cow manure and corn flew past the inside linings of my nostrils and filled my body with the God-awful smell. The door opens. Here we go; hopefully this will be over soon. Oh no, he wants a kiss...

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  23. Walking home from school, I saw five cars squished in our narrow driveway. "Dad's friends must be visiting again," I said to myself. As I approached the door, I heard them laughing and clapping their hands. "Me winner!" someone roared. "This is not my day; I haven't won a single round." replied another in a melancholy voice. I opened the door, greeted them, and gave them a bow. Four skinny, grey haired guys were sitting at our dinner table and on the far right was the dealer, my dad. On the side of the table was his old wallet stuffed with one dollar bills begging to be gambled on. "One dollar!" yelled my dad as if he was doing a karate chop. "I love is game!" he yelled again. My dad is very dedicated and passionate about what he does. "Too bad gambling is useless," as my mom would say.

    Several hours later, I heard a loud commotion at the door. "It's getting late. I have to go," said one of my dad's friends as he grabbed his metal cane. "You want to play again on Saturday?" questioned my cheerful dad. They all nodded and drove away. "Binh, are you busy?" he asked. "Help me clean up before mom comes home!" he ordered before I could answer him. "Time to get rid of the evidence," he shouted as he handed me the broom. "Yes, Captain," I answered. It felt as if we were going to war. There were going to be a lot of casualties if the house wasn't spotless before my mom comes home.

    My dad and I cleaned the dining table and swept the floor. The dishes were washed. The cigarette trays were emptied. We took out the trash. Dad examined the house and said, "Everything looks clean enough. We don't want to clean the house too much because that would make your mom a little suspicious." We sat on the couch and smiled at our sneakiness. "Dad, are you hungry?" I asked as my stomach growled. He was shocked as if a lightning bolt had hit him on his head. He ran around the house shouting, "Oh no, I forgot to cook dinner. Mom specifically told me to cook dinner." We had fifteen minutes left. My dad had to hurry and all I could do was watch because I am a horrible cook. "Tick tock, tick tock," mocked our evil clock, "You're running out of time, tick tock!"


    "Why do you have to be so big?" whined my lazy dad. He grabbed the chicken by the wing, threw it violently on the butchering board and mutilated it like a madman. Chicken skin and blood were rockets. They bombarded our spotless kitchen. Chopped vegetables were tossed into the caldron and mixed hastily. Dad sighed in relief, "Smells good." I gave the house a second clean. Suddenly there was a knock at the door, mom was home. "Binh, get the fried chicken from the car," ordered mom. As she walked through the door, the aroma of dad's cooking rammed into her nose. "Oh honey, you cooked," she said, "I thought you forgot." "Haha, why would I forget?" answered dad nervously. We all ate the fried chicken and surprisingly no one ate Dad's chaotic mystery dish. "So, how much money did you win?" asked mom right out of the blue. Our face turned bloody red. "Eight dollars!" shouted Dad. Well, Dad got busted for the ninety-fifth time. "We'll trick her one day," whisper my dad, the cheap gambling addict.

    Binh Doan
    bdoan1@lsu.edu
    final draft

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