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Stokely Mitchell

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moving on so far away and dreaming... [01 Jun 2003|06:59pm]
[ mood | pissed off ]

I lost my notebook.

Goddammit mother fucker. My notebook.

I hadn't noticed. I've been so fucking detached lately, writing in the damn thing nonstop, really, not thinking about anything but... yeah. Yesterday? Did I leave it somewhere yesterday? At school? Asked mom, she had no fucking clue what I was talking about... but then again, she never does. It could be anywhere. Anyone could have it. It's not that there's anything fucking spellbinding in it, it's only a journal slash sketchbook slash whatever the fuck I want it to be, but it's mine, and it's personal, and no one, I repeat, NO ONE, has the right to put their filthy hands on it but me.

It must have fallen out of my bag. No one would recognize it, no one would look at it and go, oh, Stokely Mitchell. It's probably been thrown away for fucking hours and what am I going to do, you can't just replace something that you've put your heart and soul into for months on end and goddammit cock sucking piece of shit. Such a fucking idiot.

And, you see. The funny thing is, is that I had been in a very good mood.

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this is the beginning of forever and ever [08 May 2003|06:30pm]
[ mood | ecstatic ]

(takes place after this.)

On page fifty-seven of her notebook there is a sketch of a car crash. The car is indeterminate in age and type. It is smashed head first into a large oak tree that doesn't go up far enough to see more than a few stray branches. There are vague, dark puddles dripping from the car and onto the ground. There is a body trapped inside of the car.

Scrawled at the bottom of the sketch in a semi-signature are the words: i wish i had been there.

On the other side of the page, page fifty-eight, is a quickly written almost-paragraph. The words are slanted, dangerously sloppy, as though the writer had been out of breath while they wrote. The words run together and there are meaningless scribbles here and there. It reads:

i ran. i got as far as the crosswalk and then i took off. i -scribble- stop. i ran until i couldn't feel my feet. almost dropped my book bag. almost fu -scribble- flew. could have. would have. i can't breathe.

don't think i want to breathe.


Underneath the words there is a crude drawing of a football helmet lying on its side. There are scuffs on its face. Blades of grass tickle its surface.

It's signed S. M.

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swing down to absolute zero [28 Apr 2003|11:53pm]
[ mood | melancholy ]

She stands at the mirror, staring, and it's like looking at a mask composed of lines that a five year old made with a sharpie.

Black on white, slashed through, mismatching her eyes, mismatching her skin.

Once when she was young she broke her vanity mirror. She had never liked the gaudy object (something that her mother made the husband buy for Stokes when he was on a business trip; get to know your stepdaughter more, honey, buy her an outrageously overpriced piece of shit and give it to her with a mumbled, 'here, Stokely, this is for you,' while you bring me back perfume that smells of decayed roses and a string of pearls that looks like a choker). And so while she listened to the parental units argue (her mother cold, language clipped, the husband heated, words like cinders) downstairs in the kitchen, she picked up her hairbrush in her thin fingers, caught her reflection's eye in the glass, and then struck a fatal blow.

The argument came to a halt down below.

No one yelled at her, but it wasn't the first or the last time that her mother would tell her, "I'm very disappointed in you, Stokely."

She stands at the mirror (different, but still the same), staring, and it's like looking at one of those half-bred creatures on the Sci-Fi channel. One of those crude illustrations in her "Monsters and Mythical Beasts" books.

When her mother comes upstairs, arms crossed over her chest, lips in a thin line, Stokely knows to gather her backpack and jacket before she is reprimanded.

They do not talk in the car, and like the mornings before, Stokely walks into the school with the sound of her mother's FM radio talk show buzzing in her ears, the sight of her own haunted, black-on-pale face in the mirror etched in front of her still.

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[17 Apr 2003|01:16pm]
[ mood | lonely ]

Sometimes I feel like screaming into someone's ear to get their attention. Loudly. Just, opening my mouth as far as it can get, and let go. Rupture my throat... split it right open...

I keep a little memo book in the smallest compartment of my book bag, that I pull out every now and then. Doodles and sketches and thoughts, and reading over it, maybe my mother's right. (her and her martinis and her stupid-ass poodle and her tennis skirt and her manicured nails.) Maybe I do need help.

Ha. Sarcasm makes the world go round.

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too far away for me to hold, too far away... [16 Apr 2003|11:53am]
[ mood | aggravated ]

She sits through physics with her chin resting in her palm, her eyes on the notebook in front of her.

With her black ball point pen held tightly in her hand, she scrawls across the blank page in her three ring spiral notebook in curves and dips and scratches:

Fuck Everything.

When the class ends, she thinks about slamming it down face up on her teacher's desk as he sits there, cleaning up his pieces of chalk and whatever else shit there is. Instead, she rips the page out, balls it up, and throws it away in the trash can on her way out. She doesn't meet her teacher's eye as he gives her a disapproving look. A couple more hours left to go.

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