Lost in thoughtful reverie when in stormed the thought police.
“We’ve been reading your feeds, patterns of speech, ads you clicked, apps you seek,” the would-be good guys screeched in, a hail of fire if ever seen.
Only they were tragically mistaken, as the girl propped up in bed had been in a coma for months. Someone had taken hold of her identity, maybe, a thief in the night, or some tech savvy assassin. Either way, it didn’t truly add up to why she has a hole in her chest and another in the cheek. Two in the same eye and fifth a direct hit on the nose.
I hate strict rules in everyday life. This is limiting creativity, this is what is behind stereotypes. This is what doesn’t allow people to be what they want to. Someone invented what’s right and we stick to this. What for? I disagree.
used to be so strict when it came to holding onto unrealistic ideals of perfection. was strict when it came to not accepting the inherent perfection of this “now.” today? i am free. i am open to what the universe is giving us in every moment: love.
The final minutes of the exam were ticking to a close and finally the end was in sight, despite the harsh glare of the examiners eyes on her back the words she’d written on the page seemed exactly what she hoped for. Unfortunately, this might mean nothing.
Straightlaced, serious, strict. That’s what she wanted to be. She wasn’t that, even a little bit. She was soft, pliable, easy to please. It would have been nice to be impenetrable, but instead she had to live through the reality of her compassion.
she was amazing but her eyes were fullof iciness that scared the hell outof him.she smiled but it seemed full of cruelty.
Her voice was smooth like silk and velvet combined.
the constricting weight of others’ heads. I’d seen a painting once where one man carried the smiling faces of others, but he bore a frown. it inspired sympathy until, as the reader turned the page, the man was letting all the frowning heads tumble from his arms with a smile on his face. which is worse, sadly bearing the weight of others’ happiness or being happy at their expense? I can’t recall the name of this painting.
the lines were strict, like the teacher watching them, and his hand was less than steady. His right hand wiggled under his bum, and he watched hopewlessly as his left
I think of teachers when I see this word- they are firm, and stern, but not necessarily demanding and fully uptight. Sometime a bit of firmness is required to complete tasks.
It’s good to have self-control, discipline, but if it confines you, restricts you from growing, then it’s a hindrance. You can’t allow yourself to become stagnant. You mustn’t screech to a halt. For just as a weed feels a need to grow, so too does the first spring flower.
I had heard that the newest teacher, Miss Danforth, was very strict, according to my older classmates. However, on the first day of class, I felt drawn to her. She was quite young to be teaching, with very short hair, a bowtie tucked under her small, square chin, and hands as big as my father’s so that when she gripped a whiteboard pen, it almost disappeared in her grip.
“I don’t like going by ‘Miss’ Danforth,” she told the class, “but simply by ‘Danforth,’ if you wouldn’t mind.”
The ladies of St. Josephs of Hartnell Hill were less strict about about their bible devotions than their beauty regime. Quite religiously, Sister Mary could be found at Agnes Moody’s hairdressing salon on Russell St each Friday for a set and blow wave. Rumour had it that the Reverend Tormey had her eye and on the day before the Reverend made his debut at Saturday prayer, Sister Mary also stopped on the way home at Olive’s pharmacy where she purchased a delicate bottle of eau de cologne and a small pot of blue eyeshadow.
strict. like the dogs that barked at my back as i picked up milk from the store. like the way you never let me cry or frown or ruin anything of yours. i dropped the milk on the way to your house tonight.
I stay up in my room. Locked away. I look out my window. Lands of grass and fields filled with flowers. I wander around my room, waiting. Waiting to be saved. Why mother? Why did you do this? Locked up in a room kept away from the world..
“No.”
“What?”
“I said no.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like you hanging out with them. I will not sit here and worry about you while you go out and enjoy yourself on god knows what those people hand out.”
“I told you, it’s just the girls. We’re staying in, watching a movie. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I always worry. I worry when you don’t call me when you get there, I worry when you don’t answer my texts, I worry.”
“I understand that you care, and I care for you too, but I have a life, ya know?”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, its the others. You don’t know how they look at you, you don’t know what they’d do if they get you alone. It’s terrifying out there, and I am going to protect you from it.”
“You don’t have to stress, I’m a grown up. I’m more than capable of handling myself.”
“No you’re not. You don’t know whats best for you. I do.”
“I trust my friends, I’d know what they were up to if it were anything more than a night in.”
“You don’t know that, and you certainly will not find out.”
“Who do you think you are?”
“I think I know what I’m talking about. Listen, I’m doing this for you and you’re going to thank me later. Who knows what they’re going to do, what guy will come onto you. I will not let you go out there and be in that position.”
“I already told you- there will be no guys. Just girls. Nothing to worry about. Why are you freaking out about this?”
“As long as I’m around, you will never question me. I know whats best, you don’t. I am telling you for the last god damn time, you are staying in tonight.”
“But-”
“Go get changed and take off your makeup, you look cheap. I expect you back down here in no more than five minutes.”
And just like that, I spent a night in with my boyfriend. Again.
The teacher surveyed the class through her thick spectacles. Her skirt was tight over her pencil-thin body, and her trim blazer was a sad shade of gray. A red, apple-shaped pin clung for dear life on her right collar. The children shrunk under her reproachful gaze.
“I run a strict classroom,” she told her cowering students. “And I will not tolerate bad behavior.”
A ruler was clutched in her left hand, and bounced, once, twice, upon the nearest desk. The young child sitting there, watched the wooden surface of the ruler slap the front of her desk, fearfully.
“You will tell me who put a tack on my chair, or you will all pay.” The teacher continued, pacing the front of the classroom like a tiger. The students glanced around the classroom–the smudged chalkboard, the strip of glossy paper that declared the letters of the alphabet, and the wooden desks provided no comfort. Finally, a young boy in the last row stood up, his hands trembling. All the children turned around to face him. His bright red tie marked him as an immediate outsider in the room full of dark gray and black wear.
“I did it,” he said, his voice shaking.
The teacher smiled a shark-toothed grin. “You will be dealt with accordingly. Come out into the hall.”
The young, now pale, boy walked to the teacher’s desk, with his head hung low. The teacher escorted him into the hall and slammed the door shut. The class collectively shivered as if a cold draft had engulfed the room.
He was very strict about the things I could like and dislike. About what I could wear, who I could see, what I could talk about. It was strange really. He didn’t actually care for me. I was just a doll he could control. It isn’t like I could say no. He owned me.
Lost in thoughtful reverie when in stormed the thought police.
“We’ve been reading your feeds, patterns of speech, ads you clicked, apps you seek,” the would-be good guys screeched in, a hail of fire if ever seen.
Only they were tragically mistaken, as the girl propped up in bed had been in a coma for months. Someone had taken hold of her identity, maybe, a thief in the night, or some tech savvy assassin. Either way, it didn’t truly add up to why she has a hole in her chest and another in the cheek. Two in the same eye and fifth a direct hit on the nose.
I hate strict rules in everyday life. This is limiting creativity, this is what is behind stereotypes. This is what doesn’t allow people to be what they want to. Someone invented what’s right and we stick to this. What for? I disagree.
used to be so strict when it came to holding onto unrealistic ideals of perfection. was strict when it came to not accepting the inherent perfection of this “now.” today? i am free. i am open to what the universe is giving us in every moment: love.
strict, such a dull word. like a straight stick, lying rigid and brittle, all bark – no bite.
The final minutes of the exam were ticking to a close and finally the end was in sight, despite the harsh glare of the examiners eyes on her back the words she’d written on the page seemed exactly what she hoped for. Unfortunately, this might mean nothing.
Straightlaced, serious, strict. That’s what she wanted to be. She wasn’t that, even a little bit. She was soft, pliable, easy to please. It would have been nice to be impenetrable, but instead she had to live through the reality of her compassion.
she was amazing but her eyes were fullof iciness that scared the hell outof him.she smiled but it seemed full of cruelty.
Her voice was smooth like silk and velvet combined.
my mom used to slap me on my arm
and i would smell like her afterwards.
she told me that strict parents
make for strong children.
i didn’t know what i wanted
but i never wanted to be weak,
so i accepted her punishments
as character building
and moved on.
maybe that’s why i never said anything
when he used to slap me
and i would smell like cigarettes and blood afterwards.
the constricting weight of others’ heads. I’d seen a painting once where one man carried the smiling faces of others, but he bore a frown. it inspired sympathy until, as the reader turned the page, the man was letting all the frowning heads tumble from his arms with a smile on his face. which is worse, sadly bearing the weight of others’ happiness or being happy at their expense? I can’t recall the name of this painting.
the lines were strict, like the teacher watching them, and his hand was less than steady. His right hand wiggled under his bum, and he watched hopewlessly as his left
I think of teachers when I see this word- they are firm, and stern, but not necessarily demanding and fully uptight. Sometime a bit of firmness is required to complete tasks.
It’s good to have self-control, discipline, but if it confines you, restricts you from growing, then it’s a hindrance. You can’t allow yourself to become stagnant. You mustn’t screech to a halt. For just as a weed feels a need to grow, so too does the first spring flower.
She doesn’t need strict guidance, she needs to feel free. Everyone should, and I wouldn’t want to take away anyone’s freedom. Addictions are strict.
I had heard that the newest teacher, Miss Danforth, was very strict, according to my older classmates. However, on the first day of class, I felt drawn to her. She was quite young to be teaching, with very short hair, a bowtie tucked under her small, square chin, and hands as big as my father’s so that when she gripped a whiteboard pen, it almost disappeared in her grip.
“I don’t like going by ‘Miss’ Danforth,” she told the class, “but simply by ‘Danforth,’ if you wouldn’t mind.”
The ladies of St. Josephs of Hartnell Hill were less strict about about their bible devotions than their beauty regime. Quite religiously, Sister Mary could be found at Agnes Moody’s hairdressing salon on Russell St each Friday for a set and blow wave. Rumour had it that the Reverend Tormey had her eye and on the day before the Reverend made his debut at Saturday prayer, Sister Mary also stopped on the way home at Olive’s pharmacy where she purchased a delicate bottle of eau de cologne and a small pot of blue eyeshadow.
strict. like the dogs that barked at my back as i picked up milk from the store. like the way you never let me cry or frown or ruin anything of yours. i dropped the milk on the way to your house tonight.
I stay up in my room. Locked away. I look out my window. Lands of grass and fields filled with flowers. I wander around my room, waiting. Waiting to be saved. Why mother? Why did you do this? Locked up in a room kept away from the world..
“No.”
“What?”
“I said no.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t like you hanging out with them. I will not sit here and worry about you while you go out and enjoy yourself on god knows what those people hand out.”
“I told you, it’s just the girls. We’re staying in, watching a movie. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I always worry. I worry when you don’t call me when you get there, I worry when you don’t answer my texts, I worry.”
“I understand that you care, and I care for you too, but I have a life, ya know?”
“It’s not that I don’t trust you, its the others. You don’t know how they look at you, you don’t know what they’d do if they get you alone. It’s terrifying out there, and I am going to protect you from it.”
“You don’t have to stress, I’m a grown up. I’m more than capable of handling myself.”
“No you’re not. You don’t know whats best for you. I do.”
“I trust my friends, I’d know what they were up to if it were anything more than a night in.”
“You don’t know that, and you certainly will not find out.”
“Who do you think you are?”
“I think I know what I’m talking about. Listen, I’m doing this for you and you’re going to thank me later. Who knows what they’re going to do, what guy will come onto you. I will not let you go out there and be in that position.”
“I already told you- there will be no guys. Just girls. Nothing to worry about. Why are you freaking out about this?”
“As long as I’m around, you will never question me. I know whats best, you don’t. I am telling you for the last god damn time, you are staying in tonight.”
“But-”
“Go get changed and take off your makeup, you look cheap. I expect you back down here in no more than five minutes.”
And just like that, I spent a night in with my boyfriend. Again.
The teacher surveyed the class through her thick spectacles. Her skirt was tight over her pencil-thin body, and her trim blazer was a sad shade of gray. A red, apple-shaped pin clung for dear life on her right collar. The children shrunk under her reproachful gaze.
“I run a strict classroom,” she told her cowering students. “And I will not tolerate bad behavior.”
A ruler was clutched in her left hand, and bounced, once, twice, upon the nearest desk. The young child sitting there, watched the wooden surface of the ruler slap the front of her desk, fearfully.
“You will tell me who put a tack on my chair, or you will all pay.” The teacher continued, pacing the front of the classroom like a tiger. The students glanced around the classroom–the smudged chalkboard, the strip of glossy paper that declared the letters of the alphabet, and the wooden desks provided no comfort. Finally, a young boy in the last row stood up, his hands trembling. All the children turned around to face him. His bright red tie marked him as an immediate outsider in the room full of dark gray and black wear.
“I did it,” he said, his voice shaking.
The teacher smiled a shark-toothed grin. “You will be dealt with accordingly. Come out into the hall.”
The young, now pale, boy walked to the teacher’s desk, with his head hung low. The teacher escorted him into the hall and slammed the door shut. The class collectively shivered as if a cold draft had engulfed the room.
He was very strict about the things I could like and dislike. About what I could wear, who I could see, what I could talk about. It was strange really. He didn’t actually care for me. I was just a doll he could control. It isn’t like I could say no. He owned me.