Changed - Writer's Island

Writer's Island is inspired by the pure love of writing! If you write, this is the place to express yourself.

Whether poetry, short stories, essays, or prose comment -- you are invited to share your work.

This week’s, and the twenty first Writer’s Island prompt is: “Changed.'

SHE

She was a rosy-cheeked little girl, prancing around in her frilly dress, lace collar, ruffled sleeves, and black patent shoes. She put on a show for her grandparents proudly singing "The Sun'll Come Out" while twirling with her teddy bear. What a thousand watt smile! She drew pictures of bunnies, butterflies, puppies, and flowers, all colored in bright shades of red, pink, blue, and green. She wrote stories about happy families, vacations, and the ocean. Boys were icky kootie-factories, but they sure were cute, weren't they?

She graduated to flirty Aeropostale tee-shirts and Buckle jeans. Reeboks took the place of patent leather shoes. Running was her passion! Sparkly gold or silver hoops adorned her ears. She'd wear a toe ring in the summer with her flip-flops, bikini top, and short denim shorts. She sang along on the car radio to Nickelback, Maroon 5, and the Red Hot Chile Peppers. Then, she began writing about broken families, broken hearts, and broken lives. Boys were "hot," and she was charming. "True love" was grand, but break-ups were a bummer.
She has moved on. She's turned against what she considers conformity. She tries so hard to be unique, she ends up conforming to a different standard. Her wardrobe consists of black. Just black. Shoes, shirts, pants, jackets, maybe some torn jeans or a pair of khakis now and then. Even her hair, once a flowing chestnut mane of long curls, is dyed black and chopped off above the shoulders. Instead of hoop earrings, she has pierced cartilage, a barbell through the top of her ear, a belly-button ring, a tongue ring, and she had snake-bites until her father gave her an ultimatum to get rid of them. Death metal bands are in her listening library. Darkness pervades her myspace, and - it seems - her thoughts, her writing, her art. A sense of doom and dread blankets her. And boys? She could take them or leave them. They're immature or they are too conformist.

She has changed.

(Yes, I still love her in spite of all her changes. Her dad and I just hope it's a phase. We see past the surface, and we hope others give her the chance to see past it.)

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