New Website!

Hello there! Thanks for reading OrganizedChaos.
I have a new official website for theater, http://www.reaganhenke.com, feel free to visit it!
Any posts or updates related to theater will be linked there.
However, seeing as everything will still be able to be found on OrganizedChaos, it doesn't affect you much.
But hey, it's cool, right?

With love,
Reagan

Memory

Flipping through the flimsy pages, the comics suddenly catch my eye. Black and white, a simple cartoon of a man cracking walnuts, and I'm suddenly flooded with a memory I can't name. A memory, but not enough of a memory to have words, and a description. A feeling. Warm. Happy. Like I've been reminded of something, a story, a picture, I saw when I was much younger. But the more I focus on the picture, the quicker the feeling fades away, and I scramble to grab onto a scene, a word, anything. Closing my eyes, I allow the fleeting, half developed slips of thought to collect, like water in a puddle, and as gently as I can, trying not to spill, I pour it into words.

Checkers, anyone?

It doesn't matter how long I wait. He is never going to sign on.

We would Skype each other every day after school.
We'd challenge each other to hangman, sending secret messages in the hidden clues, we'd play tic-tac-toe, all star bowling, everything mini-games had to offer.
But my favorite was checkers. Checkers, we could play for hours.
Skype checkers forced you to jump one another, so we'd dash around the board, avoiding the other color. The checkers grew legs and eyes, and walked themselves wherever you clicked. I'd laugh out loud when my pieces smiled at me.

But the best part?
The best part. The best part was that he always let me win.

I wonder if he knows I sign on every day, hoping that maybe, we could play. But it doesn't matter how long I wait. He is never going to sign on, but I'm still waiting.
Checkers, anyone?

Peanut Butter

It's funny. We were never really friends. But I was there, just me, when the doorbell rang. And he was there, just him, on the step. I didn't think much about opening the door. I could smell the freshly baked bread from where I stood, the crinkly brown bag in his hand. A delivery between our parents. Nothing more. He was popular. I was me.

I took the bag, retreating back into the sugar dusted kitchen. I invited him in. Why? I still don't know. Why he followed is an even deeper mystery.
He sat across from me, on the tall stool, the one with the wobbly leg. I plunged my arms elbow deep into my confection, a glorious mix of peanut butter and powdered sugar and chocolate. He laughed as a plume of sugar burst into the air.
"What in the world are you making?" he asks, laughing.
I smile into the bowl as I whisper,
"Peanut butter bars."
They are, and will, and have always been my guilty pleasure.
"I love peanut butter," he tells me.
I don't know what happened next. But we finished the rest of that jar of peanut butter, with two spoons and a lot of bad jokes. It was late by the time he left.

I saw him in the cafeteria the next day. I couldn't bring myself to say hello. As he walked by, one of the girls with him started coughing. It's funny how many people's coughs sound like they're saying, "Loser." They laughed as they walked away.

It's funny. We were never really friends. But I was there, just me, when the doorbell rang. And he was there, just him, on the step. He passed me again that day, and as he did, he smiled, leaned in, and whispered, "peanut butter."

First Day

It's the same school. Same hallways. Most of the same people.
The English room is on the other side of the hallway.
It's a different window. A different view.
But I can't help but smile.
Outside is a world of bursting green, promising and full of life. And on the very edge? A tree that has just started turning for fall. A splat of a strong orange-red on the edge of the flawless green. Threatening, waiting.

About to set my world on fire.

To be Smart

It feels empty. Hollow. It hurts.
It hurts to lose. It hurts to say goodbye.
Why do we grow attached to people?
The only logical thing to do is withdraw.
To shy away. To reject friendships. To ignore people.
Because with nothing to lose, there's no way to get hurt.

Silently, we drive through the night. I chew on my lip, fighting back tears. I know that as soon as we reach my house, he'll leave. He'll go far, far away. Grown up. Real life. I don't quite know how to say goodbye. I'm not quite sure how I'll get by without him. He's been my hero, my role model, my brother. Given me the best and the worst advice I've ever had. Taught me more than anyone ever has. And he's leaving. But for now, it's just us.
He sighs, and still looking at the road, he warns, "You'd better not do anything stupid this year."
I laugh despite myself, "Define stupid."
He takes a second to glare at me. But he loves me. I know.

Suddenly, I realize something. Avoiding people, withdrawing. It's just about the stupidest thing I can do. We're drawn to others, we need others. I'm not sure who I'd be if I'd never met anyone I've had to say goodbye to. I wouldn't be anybody at all. We're not defined by the people around us, but we're changed by the company we keep, the things they teach us.

A few days later, I find him online, and I smile to myself. He'll never be completely gone. He'll always be there when I need him, he always has been. It hurts to say goodbye. But to have people you love in your life? It's worth it.

Lipstick

I lost my favorite lipstick. It's a deep reddish color, a rich dark shade. I hid behind it. I painted it on. I let the rest of my face get lost, washed out by the juxtaposition. I lost it. And I don't care. I'm nothing less without it.

Spare

Dear Reader,
Do you ever get that funny feeling? Where you're just so upset you're biting back tears? But it's almost like you're about to throw up? Or like you're starving? Or like you just want to sob or eat or throw up or something? And your tummy just feels all jumbled? But you just shove it all down and pretend it's not there at all? That's how I feel.
Do you ever feel like you're just a spare? Like, a spare tire? Shoved in the trunk? And you wish, oh how you wish you could ride shotgun, or at least, in a seat, like a normal person. Like somebody who's going somewhere, somebody who others want to be there. Not the extra, forgotten, last-minute-shoved-in-the-trunk.
Or maybe, the problem with being shoved in the trunk, is knowing that you're a last chance, last resort kinda thing? And nobody actually wants to talk to you? They'll just humour you for as long as you pester? Nobody actually wants to have a real conversation and listen, because nobody really remembers you're there at all?
Yeah. That's how I feel, too.

Museum

Bright. Colors. Screaming. Loud. Whoa... Echoes. Huge. Ceiling. Kids. Running. Museum. Exhibits. Learning. Discoveries. Experiments. Electricity. Light. Anatomy. Weather. History. Hallways. Stairs. Arrows.


A man. He's wearing the logo. Standing. Talking.
A group of people. Listening. Also talking.
Anatomy. Exhibit. New. Hamster wheel?
Human sized! Man. Inside. Running. Whoa...

The wheel whirls around him. Screens monitor his pulse. Breathing rate.
Magnificent display... Human endurance... Power of... The words fade out.

There's a girl. Staring. Something about her expression draws me.

I step closer. Then I realize why. Shes in a wheelchair. Her own legs are useless, shriveled, balancing on the footrests of the chair. She seems to have no intention of leaving, having planted herself directly behind the hamster wheel, instead of in front, with the rest of the crowd.
She stares at the running man with a harsh intensity. Her forehead furrows, in an angry, determined sort of way, but her eyes light up with something different. Hope.

Girl. Staring. Hope. Hopeful. Running. Entranced.
Hope.

Drowning

I watch her, fragile, small, young, pale, paler still in the icy reflection of the pond. I do not know her. I do not know where I am. All I know is an overwhelming sense of responsibility for this girl, that I'm supposed to protect her. But from what? She has skates, I realize. She is skating. It's a wonder to me she does not fall, her bony ankles wobble threateningly under her. The sky is cold and ashy, everything seems faded in the surrounding grey. I can hear something, just barely. A cracking. The ice is cracking. But by the time I step onto the ice, it's already too late.
Suddenly, I am the little girl. Flooded with panic and realization, I try to step back, falling over myself, flailing skinny limbs. The ice is cracking beneath me, and in the next instant, I'm falling backwards. The water pulls me under, icy and thick, pouring in my lungs. Looking upwards, I realize the shattered hole at the surface is an eerie blue, silhouetting my outstretched hand.
Yet, I'm not all her. I'm still the guardian, watching her. I can feel myself drowning and watch myself being pulled under at the same time. I watch her sinking, her face frozen in the mask of hollowed fear I put on. The cold sinks in for the first time, along with an empty sense of failure. Her fingertips stick out of the water, just barely. I vaguely realize I could pull her out, but I remain staring. Another though drifts over, that the ice will freeze like that, just her fingers stuck above the ice.

I sit up quickly, heart pounding. A dream. I exhale, and realize I'm freezing. I pull the blanket up from the foot of the bed, and I'm shivering, even in the humid summer night. I press my hand to my face, it comes away wet. I'm crying.

"To see someone drowning in your dream suggests that you are becoming too deeply involved in something that is beyond your control. Alternatively, it represents a sense of loss in your own identity. You are unable to differentiate who you are anymore."

Who am I? Am I the girl I watched drown, overwhelmed? Am I the failed guardian? What's out of my control? I settle myself, trying to lose myself again in sleep, when I suddenly realize something. I didn't struggle. As the girl, I let myself fall, more entranced by my fingers than panic at drowning. As the guardian, I didn't pull her out, instead staring at her hands. I didn't fight death.
I lay awake. Sleep does not come.