Tears & Laughters

Ray R. F.

Description

A reimagining of “A Christmas Carol” where the ghosts partner up to help a boy in the fringe of death.
“Tears & Laughters” is a poetry collection by Ray R. F. These poems explore themes such as teen-depression, insecurities, and heartbreak.

Sujets

• Poetry

Informations

• Publié par: Trafford Publishing
• Date de parution: 08 novembre 2022
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781698713281
• Langue: English

Extrait

TEARS & LAUGHTERS
 
A POETRY JOURNAL
 
Second Edition
 
 
 
 
 
 
RAY R. F.
 
© Copyright 2022 Ray R. F. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.
 
ISBN: 978-1-6987-1332-8 (sc) ISBN: 978-1-6987-1328-1 (e)
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only. Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.
Trafford rev.  10/27/2022
  www.trafford.com North America & international toll-free: 844-688-6899 (USA & Canada) fax: [phone]
CONTENTS
About This Book
Part One
“The Two of Us”: a Story
Whispers
The Colors of the Moon
All The Loves
Birthday Shooting Star
This is How I Deal with It
The End
Part Two
In This One and In The Following
In Case You Can Hear Me
The Room
Nothing
Stop Crying
In This One and in The Following, Part Two
The Story of Us
The Angel’s Song
A Killer in Her Bed
Let Me Love You (In This One and in the Following, Part Three)
The Circle
Annotations
 
For those who have a hard time loving themselves.
ABOUT THIS BOOK
T he book you have in your hands is very special. It is special because it holds a lot of memories and dreams of the person I was before. A little over a decade ago, when I was in high school, my ESL teacher -Mr. Ramos- gave us one very simple assignment. The assignment was to write. Every Friday, just write. Write about how we felt. Write about our dreams, our fears, and our hopes. He did it so that my classmates and I became better writers, especially since we were learning English as a second language. Yet, this journal became a very important and silent friend.
I wrote in my journal until I started college. A semester in, I stopped and didn’t look at it for years. I did keep it. In the midst of classes, work, and the harsh reality of becoming an adult, it was very hard to find time to sit down and write (or do anything fun really) as I could back when I was a teenager. Yet, I always knew I would come back to it someday.
The years passed and I became a teacher. I have always craved to develop on my students a love for books -the stories that can teach us so much about the world and its people- and writing -which teaches us so much about ourselves. It is a very difficult job to do that!
As an educator, I want them to have better than I did. I want them to never give up on their dreams… which lead to a very powerful question a student made. The question was: what was my dream when I was in school. I told them to be a writer. Then, came the bomb… why I gave it up.
These questions made me realize that I was being a hypocrite by preaching about following their dreams when I gave up on mine. I had many reasons -lack of confidence, lack of opportunity, growing up in a culture where being a writer is not seen as a good career prospect- but these students made me realize it was important to go back. I shared a few poems (anonymously) and they responded very well and so I decided I was going to publish them.
I looked for my journal and read my poems. Some were terrible, some were not. Some were extremely cringy… but what teenager isn’t. And there was a lot of drama. So. Much. Drama. Alas, I decided to choose a few and I sent them.
Then, came COVID.
Back when the book came out in 2020, I didn’t really have the time, or energy to revel in my accomplishment. But then I had a group of students who bought the book and read it, and they told me what they liked, and became my cheerleaders so I can keep writing.
This second edition, includes a little bit of info on what was behind some of these poems, plus some revisions on spelling. I hope you like the book and that you continue hunting down your dreams.
 
“Nobody is a lost cause. They just think they are, so they don’t even bother to try sometimes.”
— Anna Todd, After We Fell
PART ONE
“But we loved with a love that was more than love-”
— Edgar Allan Poe, Annabel Lee
“THE TWO OF US”: A STORY
T he stained-glass door was cold upon the touch of her bare hands. She could still feel the taste of vomit down her throat, but that was to be expected after expelling half of her fluids down the toilet. She knew she shouldn’t be doing that. She had been working so hard to not do that. But who could ever say no when a gorgeous Australian god-like man invited you to the party of the century?
Truth be told, it didn’t feel like a party at all. At least not the ones she was used to. But somehow, she always ended up in raves like this one. She craved them. The sweat, the taste, the music, the lights, and the warm bodies dancing next to her.
Kneeling in front of the toilet, she could still see the silhouettes of the people on the other side of the door. But they all seemed so foreign.
Why can’t I be normal? she thought, unsure of whether it was silent or aloud. Who cared anyway, as she was alone in the bathroom. Still feeling nauseous, she rose to her feet and tried to open the door. It didn’t move. She didn’t give too much thought as to why the door didn’t even budge. She was the epitome of weakness each time she had to expel the bile from her system due to excess alcohol.
She pushed the door again, yet she was still unable to open it. Anger was starting to kick through her veins. But she couldn’t lose control. Not when the out-of-her-league boy was waiting outside. She then wondered -albeit briefly- if it would be okay to kiss him. Perhaps not , she decided, savoring the remnants of the taste of her fluids.
She took a deep breath, only for the waves of nausea to rush back in. Outside, the air was thick with the sweet smell of the smoke machine. Inside, however, that smell was gone and was substituted by the slithering smell of urine and rotten muck. She then ran back to the toilet to vomit again. Screw you, college parties! she thought and crumbled, knee first, next to the toilet.
That was when she felt it. A cold and somewhat soft mass next to her. She opened her eyes and turned around, unprepared for the discovery she was about to make.
Right there, next to her feet, she could see herself . Her body was cold and unresponsive. What the hell? she murmured. She tried to wake herself up, but nothing happened. “This was bound to happen eventually,” a voice said from the other side of the stall. “You knew it. I knew it.”
She hesitantly stepped outside the stall to see a slender figure beside the sink. The other girl was fixing her makeup, and while she looked the other way, she knew who it was. Her voice, her clothes. It was pretty obvious.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice a dying murmur. The other girl turned around. It was her .
“I’m doing what I always do,” she said. “I’m taking over, bitch.”
The other girl stepped away and pressed the button that unlocked the door. Then, with a smile on her face, she turned around and locked the door.
She screamed as she ran towards the door and pressed the button to unlock it. The door refused as if it was mocking her. She screamed again, and again, and again. Outside, the other girl found the god-like boy, and together they laughed at the dead girl left behind.
WHISPERS