Uneducated Writing

Short pieces, fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and anything else I've never been educated on (sans editing). Or perhaps I have.

#216

Oh, Hope, why have you left my life, so bleak?
Where are you in my time of dire need?
Where was I when you fell, dizzy, so weak?

I wish you were around, for my own greed,
But the battle was tough; you needed more.
I still need more, but I can only plead;

It’ll do no good, hurting to the core,
Sitting for hours, functioning (something),
Working to no end, trying to do more.

Thus, I’m left searching for answers, spinning
In all directions, a small desperate need
For closure, happiness, sadness, running,

Running… And then, as if you’ve heard me plead;
My eyes grow heavy, weary, clearly bleed;
My, mind, slowly, stops catering to greed.
You left only because you had a need.

You left after finding a place of comfort on my floor,
And that’s all I could Hope for.

Broken - Part 8 of 8

-XXV-

            “Franklin, have you heard from the advertising agency yet?”

                “No, Lo,” he replied. “I’ll call them on Monday, though, if I hear nothing tomorrow,” he sighed out, laying down on the floor of their first-floor apartment. “I have another try-out on Tuesday, too.” The small television was on a new channel, a reporter talking endlessly about a recent protest over equality and rights. Lola turned to walk in from the miniscule kitchen, probably to sit on the green love seat, next to the blue and gold striped couch. 

                “We’re just really going to need to find a way to pay for rent next month,” she began, slowly and lazily walking. “I should have enough for thi-“

                “I know, hon, I know. Just…” he reassured, standing up. “Just don’t worry. I’ll take care of it,” he reassured her, smiling and looking at her deeply.

                “You know I hate it when you do that smile thing?” She said, but she couldn’t hide her smile in response.

                “Yes, but I love it when you smile like that,” he exclaimed, pointing at her dimples. She slapped his hand away and gave him a kiss on the tops of her toes before coming back down and looking at her hands.

                “Maybe you could ask your mother if she has heard of anything anywhere, or even for just a little help,” she inquired.

                “No, Lo, I can’t do that to her again. She has put up with enough of me, you know that, and she isn’t receiving as much money from David as she used to.”

                “Oh,” she stated fumbling with her fingers, “I didn’t know that.”

                “I’m sorry, I thought I told yo-“

                “It’s just…”

                “Just what, hun,” he inquired after a few moments of silence, lifting up her chin to look her in the eye.

                “I’m uhm… I don’t…”

                “You don’t what, Lola?”

                “Franklin, I’m pregnant.”

— To be continued —

I love it when you wear the necklace I bought you, even if you’re wearing it around him, because it still compliments your smile.

Broken - Part 7 of 8

-XXIV-

“You can’t just fire me!”

“Frank, listen, we have to let you go,” Steve said, sporting one of his tweed suits, sitting across from Franklin and next to Peter, Franklin’s advisor and boss.

“This is literally,” Franklin highlighted, “insane. You just want to get rid of me so you can bring in some poor sap to do my job for way less, don’t you?”

“No, Frank, tha-“ Peter started.

“Or maybe, just maybe it’s because you think you’re going to ‘better me’ by giving me opportunity.”

Peter shuffled the papers in front of him, sighing out. “Can I be frank, Frank?” Steve through up a hand in protest, but Peter never broke eye contact with Franklin. “It’s because you’re a god damn horse, Frank. I mean Jesus, in the last week you’ve broken the fax machine because it started beeping and it startled you, you won’t wear pan-“

“We had this discussion,” Franklin interrupted, booming, “they’re not comfortable, and none fucking fit correctly! Are you that insensitive?” he demanded, pacing the room and knocking a file of papers off the glass table.

“Well, Frank, some are tired of the flies buzzing around you and the office, and last Tuesday you shit in the middle of the conference room. What the hell, man?” Peter inquired.

“Oh come on!” he yelled. “You can’t fire me for that! That goes against some like, medical condition law or something!” he exclaimed, still pacing the room and pointing at Peter. “Gah!” He galloped out of the room, knocking over the water jug as he trailed by, and whipped up more documents from a desk with his fanning tail. 

Broken - Part 6 of 8

-XX-

After the bus incident, Franklin was hard pressed to find a way to get to school other than walking. He didn’t mind it; it was not a terribly long gallop to school for him, and he enjoyed the freedom with which galloping around town gave him. Sometimes, on his way back, he would take a long way home and gallop through a large field, park, or trail. He loved the freedom of just being. Once, though, he got carried away and accidentally galloped through the backyard of a three time award winning Great American Gardener, subsequently killing any chance of making him a four time award winning Great American Gardener.

Due to Franklin’s large size and weight, he had been banned from all forms of public transportation approximately eight years ago. He walked to and from class every day; not a far walk for a being of his size. When it was cold, he would put on gloves, ear muffs, and a scarf at his mother’s request, his thick fur keeping his bottom half amply warm, and his upper half sporting a sweater that was too big, but fit his muscular and large frame. On his way back to his apartment, he would walk with Lola, the girl he had met while trying to take a dance class. The instructor had to kick him out of the class two weeks in due to the way his horse-shoes tore up the wooden floors and gave every dance the continual feel of a tap dance. Lola, though, wanted to help him learn what he could. Volunteering her time when possible, Lola and Franklin danced together.

“Slower, slower, Franklin,” she would tell him. “There’s no need to go any faster. Just learn your footing.” He was clumsy, but he tried his best. At times, he would just pick her up and hold her close as he trotted around for a minute or two, making her laugh and throw her head back. Her silky brown hair would brush against his, blending in with his long hair if only for a moment or two, and her green eyes would shine in the light if it caught it just right.

He loved the way she laughed, too. It made him feel like he had a small purpose, and when her hands would cup themselves on his shoulders, he felt a little happier. Warmer.

They danced and laughed, and Franklin fumbled over his four hooves, clanking upon the wooden floor of the studio they had snuck into. He had remembered how his mother had once tried to get him to wear “booties,” which were essentially hospital shoe coverings, and he tried to implement them again in the dance studio, but to no avail. Nonetheless, Franklin had become determined to learn the dance to a song he couldn’t pronounce, but eventually, Lola made them stop.

It was oddly warm out for early-November. Franklin waited for her to grab her stuff and put her coat on so that he could walk her home.

“Well, I guess I expected it to be cold out,” she laughed. “It’s like, warm, and foggy, and the sky is … light.”

“You’re weird, you know that?” he teased. They both laughed, his booming voice with a “shaddup, will ya!” from some second story window in a nearby apartment complex. The street was littered with garbage, fog covering the smaller pieces on the ground, but the crunch underneath Franklin’s hooves was very evident in the quiet of the night. Lola hummed a song and held his arm as they walked down the street, and everything was perfect. He dropped her off at her door to give her a hug, and turned around, as there was no way for him to get into the entryway of the apartment complex.

She closed the door with a sweet, “Good night,” but Franklin had noticed that the door hadn’t closed all the way, and in an attempt to close it, he ended up kicking a small hole through the bottom, too.

Broken - Part 5 of 8

-XIV-

 “Another year, another long bus ride, eh, Frank?” Dallas said to Franklin. Franklin had met Dallas in fourth grade when Dallas had tripped over Franklin’s legs, oogling at Franklin’s tall and lean body. Dallas fell over Franklin, losing his glasses in the act, and consequentially having them crushed under Franklin’s hooves. Dallas’ pimpled face and large nose turned rose-red in embarrassment, and his unbelievably small frame would quiver just a bit as if he was about to mess himself again.

Franklin apologized as the skinny child fell over him, his voice booming with bass. Everyone looked, laughed to themselves, and continued on. Unlike his mother’s prediction, those around Franklin eventually did get used to him. Having a Centaur in a school setting was disruptive for quite some time, but eventually, all of the children thought of it as nothing. They would just continue on with their day, perhaps laughing under their breath, perhaps simply forgetting about whatever menial action or happenstance Franklin was involved in.

“Yep,” said Franklin. The bus had taken out a section of two seats for him to lay down in. He curled atop his legs. Now, at approximately eight feet tall and 1100 pounds, Franklin was more than what most vehicles could handle, but the bus wheezed on with him aboard.

“It’s gonna be a good year, though, I just know it, dude,” Dallas squeaked, readjusting himself in the uncomfortably large greet seat across the aisle from Franklin. His puberty stage had hit, and every other word out of his mouth had been with a squeak or a crack in his voice. “I bet you could try out for football! You’d be great, and so popular, and so fast, and so flippin’ tall, they’d have to let you play, dude!”

Franklin sighed. He had tried out two years ago for middle school football, but a group of parents had petitioned to not allow him to play. “He’s a freak,” the exasperated stay-at-home-moms cried out at PTA meetings, “and it’s an unfair advantage! He’s, like two feet taller!” Franklin was never present for these, but he heard his mother complain about it on the phone to his aunt a few times.

“I don’t think that’ll happen, D, but I appreciate the support. Are you seriously going to try to start a video game club?”

“Yeah, man! It’ll be so much fun!”

Franklin chuckled a hearty laugh which boomed and echoed on the bus’ aluminum ceiling. Everyone looked back at him for a second or two, a few had never seen him up close before and were still staring from when he got on, but the others quickly turned away.

The bus gave a weak wheeze as it came to a stop on the long hill. Smoke puffed up in the air from the exhaust, and the bus driver began to cuss at the front. “Come on, ya damn thing,” he yelled out, hitting the dashboard. “Come on, baby, you got this. Come on!”

Franklin was staring outside at the bird flying in between trees next to the bus when the scenery began to roll by him from left to right. Backwards, he thought.

Broken - Part 4 of 8

-IX-

“Franklin, dear, can you come wash off your hooves?” Miranda sweetly called. “You’re tracking little dirt pieces everywhere.” His hooves clanked across the linoleum of the kitchen, toward the dustpan and broom behind his mother, the smell of hot stew hugging the whole house.

“Sure, Ma.”  Franklin began to sweep the kitchen, moved into the scarred wooden floor of the small foyer, and then wrapped down the wood lined floor that led back into the kitchen, all the while tracking more dirt behind him, yet proud of the mess he cleaned up.

Miranda away from the pot of stew on the stove and over he glasses, the small amount of wrinkles on her face increasing in number when she scrunched her face and saw more dirt than was there before. She tucked her auburn bangs behind her ear and sighed out. She would always thank him and then clean it up for him, whatever the chore she asked him to do was. 

Broken - Part 3 of 8

-VI-

Franklin and his mother drove the small distance daily to the city limits so that Miranda could walk Franklin to school. Franklin’s father had left them some five years ago, and while the money they received monthly from him allowed them to live quite comfortably, they were only able to move to a quaint house on the outside of the city, as most apartments in the city did not allow “pets,” which most considered Franklin to be. Franklin, at times, still remembered vague images of the old farm which had made Franklin’s father’s family so wealthy. 

“Yeah, that’s Frank, that freak of a horse dude,” the child said, sitting low on the stoop of his tenement-style apartment complex and pointing for his friend’s clarification. Slouching over, he laughed with his friend who stared as the boy made his way down the busy avenue with his mother for his first day at the new school. The horse-boy’s hooves clopped on the pavement giving the city streets the sound of what most presumed to be a horse and buggy to be coming up behind them. Franklin’s mother had given up reminding him to ignore the rude comments a few months ago, but Franklin still noticed her gripping his hand slightly tighter when they were directed at him.

At his last school, Franklin had only made it three days before kicking a small child with his mighty rear hooves. Being six years old, his mother had worried how he would handle the constant stares and gasps that he had endured growing up. Now, weighing in at 300 pounds, Franklin could certainly hold his own, but he wasn’t as big as a horse, nor as small as a human should be. When on his hooves, he was much taller than all of the children he encountered, and certainly stronger with his four, lean, long legs.

His awkward trot down the sidewalk with his mother was met with the usual combination of stares and gasps. “You’d think they would just, like, stop after all of these years,” his mother would always comment. But they never did.  Thus, Franklin had moved schools four times in the last year. Second grade had proven to be more difficult than first grade, with the children constantly laughing, pointing, and usually taking the entire class off task. Normally, someone would just get distracted by his wagging tail, knocking papers and crayons off desks. After a while, they got used to the fact that he was half-horse, but the children never seemed able to get over how he went about his business. He walked differently, didn’t wear pants (or a shirt), and when he laughed, he would consistently kick something behind him and stomp his hooves. He could not sit in a normal chair like the rest of the children, and thus, Franklin normally stood or laid in the back of the classroom, away from anything breakable.

As Franklin arrived at the school, a bus driver took an empty bus into the median of the bus loop, and a faint scream was heard from across the playground. Franklin’s teacher, Ms. Pickle, and principle, Mr. Tull, were standing outside to greet him as he arrived with a hearty smile and a small amount of hesitation as he straightened his back to stand tall, though only about halfway. His round belly seemed to be weighing his forward.  

“Welcome, Franklin,” the Principle said. “Are you ready to start here at Elm Street Elementary?” he asked, excitedly. “We have lots of stuff for you to explore here!” While he said this in a manner that conveyed every ounce of genuineness that a principle can expect to give while encountering a young child who is also half horse, it was also not the first time that a statement like this has been said to Franklin and his mother.

“I just want some water,” he exclaimed. At age six, he had an oddly deep voice, frightening most children, which (this time) caused Ms. Pickle to flinch and have a hard-blink. “Please,” he added.

The Cry - Part 4 of 4

—Click for Part 3—

Weeks passed as they normally did. No one came to help or console him when he buried his Grandfather. Ted called Christian, but he was busy with the bar and other things, only giving a small “Sorry, man” when he mentioned his Grandfather. He went to a different bar in town, ordered some drinks to liquor himself up, and found a few girls to sleep with over the course of the following three weeks. One of the girls he saw twice. His pity story made it a little easier, and he was able to get quite violent with them. “Kinky,” they called it. Pent up anger, he thought.

He didn’t have the money for a proper burial, and with the ground being far too frozen and hard outside, he dug a hole in the Greenhouse to bury him the day after he found Robert. A small mound of dirt was raised a few inches above the ground next to the tomato plot.

Read More

The Cry - Part 3 of 4

—Click for Part 2—

“Just when you think it can’t get any colder,” Robert said, “the damn blizzard hits and my car is a frozen mess.” He wiped the snow off his face, the white beard looking no different with the snow in it. “Theodore, could you take your Jeep into town and get some of these supplies for me?”

Ted dropped the hammer instantly. It made a loud “pang” on the anvil before tumbling to the ground. Resting his left hand on the metal he had been hitting, he held his breath and clenched his right hand into a first. He exhaled, sighing. “Yes, Pa. I can.”

Read More