Yeah. It's fun. And I thought that "bells" would be limited.

And you know where this one came from, too? From kat's "what would you write about if you were writing about these school subjects" call for titles for her class project.

I'd said, "My partner, the pyro" for Chemistry, and that got me all nostalgic about my old crush on my lab partner in high school. It was great! I did all the math and he did all the things that involved any sort of danger. We only cleared the classroom once.

Then came the bells topic, and ping! There was the trigger for this memory of an intensely whispered sexually charged conversation between my eighth grade crush and my sophomore crush. Oh, the sweet tingle of adrenaline, the glorious possibilities, the inevitable complete inaction and loss of the moment. Teen angst is the best angst evah!

Liese, sounds like I have to take your word for it - I somehow missed most of the usual realities associated with being a teenager, and angst was one of them.

But it sure makes for some good reading.

a quick, very brief drabble freewrite just to try to get myself back into the thread again...

They ring every 86 minutes. They shriek into the empty halls, a shrill admonition to jump, move, hurry hurry. They drive me into polished bits of time, swift and sleek and sudden. I am whip-toned to them, quivering in their silence, waiting.

Like a horse trained to the gate, I leap forward when I hear the bells.

Ooh, nice, Kristin.

Teacher drabble. Kewl.

For some reason, this category is all about death and dying, for me.

Requiem for my Father

Silence, warmth, darkness. This is the Hawaiian night: something calls sharply, out near Waimeia Canyon. It might be Pele herself, bored with fire, wanting some peace. I wouldn't know; I'm fathoms deep.

But along my nervous system, something is whispering. It takes an unquantifiable time to reach the brain, to declare itself as my father's voice. I'm asleep; he's half a planet away.

The voice reaches my brain, one word: "Goodbye."

I sit upright, unable to breathe, reaching for the phone. As my fingers find it, it rings under my hand.

I already know what I'm about to be told.

Sometimes it's him. Or not him. But it's about him, and the silence is his fault, or her fault, if she did something wrong, was too needy, not beautiful enough, not kind, warm, as funny as other girls.

Sometimes she likes quiet. No books overdue, no bills, no one trying to contract her for more.

She thinks, every now and again, right now, no one wants to say her mother's dead, or that she's won a million dollars, no one's saying they love her, need her, or will never speak to her again.

Sometimes she watches it not ring.

ita, that's gorgeous, but it's missing a word or two:

"no one is wants to tell her mother's dead"

tell her her mother's dead? tell her that her mother's dead?

The Catholic church a few blocks from our house rings its bells on the hour. They’re soft. I only hear them if I’m outside and the wind is just so. They mark time, but not as I do. The bells aren’t in a hurry. They sanctify the meeting of the eternal and the now, while I measure my life in items crossed off a to-do list. Sometimes when I hear them I pause and think how I must enjoy the now, give thanks for the gifts of late summer and a baby girl’s smile. But it’s only for the moment, and then I am myself again.

Thanks for the catch, deb. I switched verbs, and left pronouns flapping in the wind.