Invisible The Morning After
River Road
The Virginia Exhibit
A Lost Car on Spike Canyon
The Beneficiaries
Invisible The Morning After
Beautiful Shadows
Something Like Wonder
Try to Keep Up
A Series of Moments Between Clocks
The Unromantic REAL World of Gulliver's Travels
Meant for One Thing
The Lesser of Evils
Love and Nemesis
The Sinning Bishop
The World In Your Pocket
Higher Purpose
A Promising Look at Genesis
Not For The Ladies
Fooling Around and Falling In Love
The Tediousness of Tragic Love
Poetic Analysis for "The Trees"
Creation On Dub
Creating the Universe
Fast Acting In Small Doses
As Crazy As They
We Can Always Use More Utopia
A Little Church in Corinth
The Theory of Carl Rogers
Historically Speaking
Different Shades, Same Color
A Rose for a Funeral
Obsessed With Race


"Sorry...I didn't know you were here."

I live here, I thought.

     Then I sat up in bed and looked at the time on the desktop of my cel phone, placed it in its convenient wooden cradle at the head of the bed, and sighed. If I was in the room, it was almost always plugged in and charging, and in the late hours when I became too tired to speak I would place it in the corner peg of the lofted bed near my head. At odd hours I would receive text messages from my dearest friends, all of whom happened to be far away and kindred in either insomnia or complete boredom. Sometimes I would get a morning phone call to wake me...other times I would have to depend on the alarm I had set on the phone itself, which had become my great composite companion.

     And now, on a Sunday morning, she didn't know I was in here. The place that I sleep....or try to, until the other three decide I'm finished sleeping. They decide when I start, too, to my great dismay. Yes, Sunday mornings are the worst.

     My phone had been silent for the majority of a day, with one extremely pleasant exception, but the silence was a huge mishap from the normal routine. My friends were sick, tired, their lives. I was living mine, know, one of those many stretches of time when you had to stop and wonder to yourself how much of time really gets wasted.

     Speaking of wasted, while this was going on, my roomies were drinking... complaining.. stumbling...laughing empty braindead laughter that can only come from an intoxicated mouth. Their friends did the same...
     Two girls lay in each other's arms on the couch, giggling and talking incoherently while a slobbishly dressed male figure looked on, entertained. The girls swore they were not drunk...swore they were straight...swore they felt like throwing up. Half-full plastic glasses of bright colors were perched on every available surface, their contents smelling strongly, but not nearly as strongly as they would in a few short hours.

     On Sunday morning, I stretched my aching back and glanced at the phone once more. It delivered no comfort, and why should it? Even Andy Parker was turned away from me, lying awkwardly at the edge of the bed. In my frustration I was sad to admit that I felt like pushing him off the edge, but it was a long fall and I feared for his soft delicate little stuffed penguin body. Without thinking, I flipped to my stomach and covered back up in warmth, convinced that my comfort should begin soon.

     "It smells funny in here," she remarked for the third time. I still had no idea what she was talking about. She was always noticing things worthy of complaint when it came to our living space. Good, I thought. Maybe then she will start to take her Saturday night friends to drink elsewhere!!

     I asked her what smelled funny, and she said she didn't know and attached another dryer sheet to the fan. Immediately the overwhelming scent of clean laundry filled my head and I had to cough. She looked up at me and laughed, so I laughed too.

     "Are you awake?" she asked. Of course I was awake...I had been sitting here talking to her for five minutes. She sighed, "No..I mean, are you getting up or do I still have to be quiet?"
     I laughed again, this time with a bitter edge. I was awake because she had failed miserably at being quiet in the first place. It seemed I was always inconveniencing them with my necessity for sleep.

     I didn't want to be resentful. I had been overloaded with that sickening feeling the night before, and now I just wanted to live in the daylight. Maybe today would be splendid in golden glory. Maybe I would finally run across someone who I wouldn't have to smile at politely while laughing or crying on the inside. Its so heartsickening to have to do that.

     I threw down the covers and inched backwards, placing the phone on the edge of the bed so I could reach it from the floor if it ever did decide to ring. I climbed carefully down the side of the loft, feeling the navy blue rug force its wakefulness on me from underneath. It was a chilly morning...and the other two had left hours ago. How they could have been awake and coherent puzzled me. Only a few short hours ago they had still been doing shots and attempting to charm the other gender with their drunken confidence.
     I had been sitting at my desk, feeling my stereo pulsing its heavy bass through the wall as they abused it with some sort of horrid West Coast hip hop. I listened to the conversations whey were having against my will, occasionally hearing a few of the lyrics in their music. Lapdances.....bitches....hoes....holla. I smiled in spite of myself and shuddered it away as glass broke in the other room. It was fine, though, because it hadn't been entirely genuine in the first place. I had been thinking of something pleasant that had long since left me.

     Now the entire night had left time but not necessarily in content. The other room where the excitement had been was now cold and bathed in shadowy morning rays, where I would take my first real steps into a reality I was starting to dislike more and more every second.

Katherine Kennon (2004)