The Poetry Journal

Chapter One

Hello!  I have decided to completely rewrite The Poetry Journal.  I was awful at writing when I first started, and some might argue that I still suck, but I wanted to serve this story justice and clean it up a ton.  I will be posting whenever I can.  I plan on slowly replacing every chapter with the new version of the story instead of taking it down and completely rewriting, which I find extremely intimidating.  So the way I am choosing to rewrite is more for my sake than anything else.  I hope you enjoy!

School always sucked for me. It was like a cinder block prison painted an ugly tan, covered in positive message posters. So, when the last bell of the day rings, I'm more than happy to leave. Unfortunately, sometimes school is so boring, that I skip altogether, and that often leads to detention. So here I was.

I was alone in the room except for the oldest teacher in the school, Mrs. D. No one can pronounce her full name, so we stick to Mrs. D. I propped up my binder on top of the pencil-graffitied desk and slip my phone out of my backpack. There was no real reason for stealth since Mrs. D was sleeping soundly, but hey, sometimes you just want to feel sneaky.

I don't have anyone's number, or any games on my phone, so I casually scroll through Pinterest to pass the time.

Just when it seemed the living nightmare that was detention would never end, that beautiful bell rescued me from the jaws of the dragon. I hurriedly packed up my stuff and rushed out of the room before Mrs. D could wake up.

***

The small town of Westville was just that, a small town with an uncreative name. The people of Westville however, were a completely different story, heck they were a completely different library!

There was an ex-astronaut who lived here with her wife and four dogs, an owner of one of the biggest cafe chains in the United States, and even normal people, like me.

I lived in a cheerful yellow house with a bright blue door. It looked incredibly stupid, but my dad and my mom loved that house. They painted the door on their wedding day, so it held special memories for them. It would also explain the blue paint on the bottom of my mother's wedding dress.

I pushed open the front door and was instantly greeted with the delicious aroma of my mother's cooking. This woman could be a world star chef if she wanted to.

I drop my bag and kick off my shoes, instantly relaxing. I run and slide across the wood floors to the kitchen.

"What's for dinner mom?" I glance down into the pot. "Yum." I lick my lips. "Mom's famous chili!" I tear a piece of bread from the loaf on the cutting board and dip it into the chili. I scoop up as many beans as possible before cramming it into my mouth.

"Needs more salt." I critique. My mother hummed in disapproval but put in a dash of salt.

"Thanks mom!" I slide over to my dad who was intensely staring at the television. An episode of Jeopardy was playing. Dad loved to play along, but man was he awful at it. I swear it wasn't statistically possible for him to be that bad, but nevertheless it continued to be his favorite show.

"Venice, Italy." He all but screams at the screen.

"Dad." I say slowly. "The answer is what is Rome."

Sure enough, the answer was just as I predicted. My dad slammed his fist into the arm of the chair and cursed under his breath. I loved my dad, but when he played Jeopardy, he acted like a toddler.

"Anne! Come help me set the table." I hurry over to the cabinets and grab bowls and utensils. I quickly arrange them on the table and help my mother scoop steaming hot chili into the bowls and a thick slice of bread of the top.