Dr. Mousse's Stories

Confessions of a Lost Soul

2008-06-13T18:50:44Z

The face in the mirror is supposed to be me. Marked by all that is me. But, who am I? Why am I? I don’t recongnize the face. It was formed by influence and experience, not by me.

Others look in the mirror and see themselves, I see a stranger. They live inside of me, waiting to come out. So many questions, but no answers to be found. Homeless. Hopeless. Lost. Found. Truthful. Shy. Loud. Scared. Nervous. Unknown. New. Old.

It’s all me, yet none of it is. Searching day and night, months and years. Life is a mystery. When will it be solved? My face, a mask. Worn to hide the shame, fear, ignorance, innocence, lies; it all hides. I’m always running, but I feel like I’m standing still.

Running, running, from where? To where? Why? To find the face that I made. The home that I picked. The life that I chose. Me, not others. I’ll start anew. A fresh page. A clean slate. Maybe one day when I’m running, I’ll be ready. Ready to stop running. Ready to be myself. Ready to reveal.

Ready to take off the mask.

Confessions of an Obese Kid

2008-06-12T23:17:38Z

Location: Middle School Cafeteria
Time: Lunch Time

I walk down the halls, slowly treading towards the place I hate most. Not my own will, because of what others say. I grudgingly push open the double doors, and the sound surrounds me, lifts me up like a wave does to a ship.
“Hey, man, you see that game?”
“It was saweet!”

“Heyyyy, what’s up? OMG , you would not believe who talked to me!”
“Ewww, what is this? We’re supposed to eat this?”
Then, a sea of eyes all flick to one location, as if a magic force pulled them this way.

“Haha! Hey, fatso! Got your twinkies?”
“I thought is was ho-hos!”
“How do you get that fat? I didn’t think it was possible!”

The comments rush at me. And I wonder why? Why did you even try? They’ll never accept you. To them, you’re just a target to throw their hurt, their anger at. It doesn’t make it hurt less, even though I know. I run out of the cafeteria to my place, where I sit among friends and have a nice conversation; meet Toilet, TP, Sink, and Stall.

Confessions of an Accused

2008-04-27T20:23:11Z

September 15, 2001
Mesa, Arizona: Gas Station of Balbir Singh Sodhi

Inside the head of Balbir Singh Sodhi:
I sit inside at the cash register in my gas station. Its a nice day; its finally starting to cool off. I hear a car rumble up and I see a man, around 40, get out of his car. He looks around suspiciously as he fills up his car.

As he paces next to his car, I notice a bulge under his jacket that he holds onto the entire time. He glances into the store where I sit and sees me. I give him a friendly wave and smile; he glares and mutters.

As I sit, in my turban and beard, I think about how I am going to Gurudwara tonight, with my son and brother, and how thankful I am to have them.

All of a sudden, the door bangs open and the same man stands in the doorway, with his face red. All the other customers stare at him as he draws out the bulge, a gun, and points it at me. “Filthy terrorist!” he shouts and shoots 1-2-3-4-5 times. I hear screams. I think “God, oh help me dear God.“

Why me?

Confessions of Two Ficleteers =]

2008-03-16T20:10:32Z

We would like to take a pause in the series to add this in:

The authors of the Confessions series, heartbeats echocho and Dr. Mousse, would like to dedicate this series.

We dedicate this series to those who wanted to speak up, but never received the chance.

To those who had a voice that wasn’t heard.

And we ask all of you fellow ficleteers to use your wonderful voice and embrace the gift that God gave you: the ability to speak your mind, share your ideas, and listen in return. That’s why we’re all here, isn’t it?

We will now return to the series…..

Confessions of a Loner

2008-03-15T23:19:50Z

You see me alone in the halls, at lunch, in class.
I don’t laugh, giggle, flirt, talk, whisper.
“The loner kid” you call me.

But, do you bother to ask why?

“Hey, kid, why don’t you have any friends?”

If just one of you, just one, took the time to ask, I’d speak more words than you’d ever heard.

Maybe I don’t talk because it’s too hard. Too hard to make friends, start over, let go. Maybe I don’t talk because it’ll be easier next time I have to leave. I’m sick and tired of starting over.

Sick and tired of moving, from state to country to continent. From Pennsylvania, to Wisconsin, to Michigan, to Germany, and on, and on. Next time it won’t be so hard. I won’t miss anything because there was nothing I liked.

I’m tired of realizing the ones I poured my hearts out to didn’t care. I try not to get attached so next time I don’t have to cry because there won’t be any pain. Yet, you all go about your lives. Not caring, wondering, bothering.

If just one of you took the time to ask….
Why?

Confessions of an Assassin

2008-03-12T13:14:33Z

Date 15 April 1865

Hideout. Check.
Escape horse. Check.
Gloves. Check.
Gun. Check.

Today’s the day. I’ll make my country proud. I grab my things and sneak out the side door. The last of the crowd scurry in for the show. Little do they know that they’ll be seeing more than the play, My American Cousin.

I walk towards my planned entrance door and leave my horse with the guard outside. I open the door and climb up the stairs, barely able to contain myself.

Today, I will make the confederacy, and all men of my nation proud. I slowly open the door to the balcony and watch for a little while. Let dear old Lincoln enjoy a few more moments.

He laughs, “What a great play, wouldn’t you agree, Mary?”
She smiles at him, “Oh, ye-

Shot.
Screams. I jump. Searing pain through my leg. I run. I jump on my horse. I gallop away. He will be dead soon. And my country will be proud, proud that they have such gallant men.

Why? Because I’m John Wilkes Booth, my friend.

Confessions of a Guilty Mind

2008-03-11T23:48:25Z

Year 1942

I am a soldier. A proud man to be serving my country. Doing what is considered right. I am a Nazi.
Or should I say, was?

Everyday, I watch innocent people die. Sent to the left or right. Labor or death. All in the flick of my wrist.
But why?

We’re told that we are weeding out the dirt and filth from our society. Only blaming those who were meant to be blamed. But, who decides that? Hitler?
I stop sorting for a moment, resting; as if flicking my wrist tires me. But, it does. Knowing that by a single, almost involuntary, movement, I determine the rest of people’s lives.

Young. Old. Weak. Strong.

A fellow soldier comes over. Soldier? Hah. More like executioner. He looks down at me, crouched on the ground.
Asks, “Sind Sie gut?” Are you alright?
I look at him tears collecting in my eyes.
“Why do we do this? Why?,” I ask.
He looks at me, examining my character. He turns away slowly and quietly responds, “Wir sind gerade folgende Aufträge.”

We are just following orders.

The Trap

2008-03-04T20:46:58Z

David couldn’t decide how long he should keep kissing her. It felt nice, but his back was starting to feel sore from bending down to where she was on the bed. He finally pulled away and they smiled at each other.

“Well, I better go now,” he said, and walked out of her room and towards Bella’s house.

What could she want? he thought.
I mean, she wasn’t so anxious to talk to me in school today. The way she acted today made it sound like we were done.

He continued to walk, lost in his thoughts, wondering what Bella could want. He stopped in front of Bella’s house and looked up to her bedroom window. Then, he narrowed his eyes trying to see what was going on.

Is that a couple making out? It is! Who is it? Wait, the blinds just flew open. What! It’s Bella and Michael!

He shook with rage, but that was the last thing he would do for awhile, as a board was raised behind him and was hit across the back of his head.

“Sorry, mate,” the attacker said, as David fell, unconcious, to the ground.

Confessions of an Outsider

2008-03-03T23:13:35Z

Year: 1956

Seperation. Segregation. Isolation. Discrimination.
It’s all me. Yet none of it is me.

These words have been placed upon my shoulders, this appearance, these characteristics. It’s all familiar, yet none of it is.

But it is me. It is I.

Why, I never knew why.
Why does the color of my skin, make people hate?

Your eyes are blue, yours are green. Don’t make you any different. Doesn’t mean you have to drink, sit, eat, and use different things and places.

Skin. Momma told me that it’s not what’s on the outside, but what’s on the in.

Then, tell me why. Oh God, please tell me why!

Why do people hate? Discriminate. Debate. Incriminate.

Tell me, please, tell me.

WHY

Confessions of an Illegal Immigrant

2008-03-03T22:57:25Z

The black of the night has swallowed everything around me. There is nothing but me. The only source of light is the occasional search beam criss-crossing through the sky.

The night is bonita, the stars seem brighter than ever. Will they be the same on the other side? Or will my eyes change as well as my life?

I look around and enjoy my last night, ever, in Méjico, maravilloso Méjico. If only mi madre y padre hadn’t passed, I’d still be there. I’d be playing with mis primos y primas, mis hermanos y hermanas. I would sit in the garden while abuela made churros and abuelo told stories.

I wouldn’t have to be a ten-year old fugitive.

I tip-toe through the under brush, careful not to make a sound. I slow my breath, watch the guards, become one with nature. I wait for the distraction and ready myself to sprint. Months of practice, years of planning; is this what it’s all for?

I hear the shouts of the soldiers and I make a run for it.

I smile as my new life begins.
“Welcome to America, hombre.”

Just Talking

2008-03-03T22:35:22Z

They sat in her bedroom and talked. They talked about how it had started and whether it would ever end.

They laughed, they smiled, and remembered the past.
It was all going fine until current technology interfered.

Ring. Ring

“Darn,” David said, “Hold on.” He looked at the caller ID and jumped. “Are you kidding me?”

“What?” Andrea asked.
“It’s Bella.”
“Well, pick it up!”

David picked up the phone reluctantly and said, “Hello?”
“Heyyy. What’s up hottie?”
“Nothing really. I’m kind of busy.”
“Ohhh. But, I really miss you. Can you come over? I wanna talk to you!”
“Well…”
“Please!” David looked at Andrea. She nodded.
“Okay, I guess I could for a little,” David said and hung up. “Well, I gotta go.” They looked at each other awkwardly.

“I guess you should go,” Andrea said.
“Yeah,” he said, then looked at Andrea suspiciously.
“What?” she said.
“This,” he said.

Then he leaned in and kissed her.

Where to?

2008-03-03T21:49:13Z

“Oh,” Andrea said quietly.
“Yeah,” replied David, scuffing his shoes across the floor. He looked back at her with a somewhat hopeful expression on his face. “Well…” he continued.

“Well what?”
“Do you wanna go to homecoming with me?”
“Um, well, I guess so.”
“Okaaaay,” David replied, unsure of the conversation.
“Um, do you want to come to my house? So we can talk this mess over?”
“Okay,” David replied quickly, just in case she would take the offer back.

So off they walked into the distance, not quite sure where this would go.

Confessions of a Mourner

2008-02-28T23:55:09Z

Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It’s the transition that’s troublesome.
-Isaac Asimov
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Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out.

Boom. Boom.

My feet slam against the pavement as I gasp for cold air. Tears roll down my face and zip off into the wind. The wind lashes against my face and stings like the crack of a whip.

With every step my feet make the voices:
Why? Gone! Why? Gone! Why? Gone! Why? Gone! Why? Gone! Why? Gone! Why? Gone! Why? Gone! Why? Gone!

She’s gone from my life, never will be back. God gave her life in a second and took it back in another.

I collapse, and its not because of my asthma.

Gasp Breath in. Breath out. Breath in. Breath out.

Tears. Shaking shoulders. But, life moves on. I’ve learned to live without you. It’s just that my heart hasn’t.
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A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.
-Joseph Stalin

Confessions of a Text-aholic

2008-02-19T23:05:32Z

Beep. Beep.
whats ^? goin 2 the mall?
I sit on the stairs of the house. Waiting for my ride. My phone gripped tightly in my hand; an extension of my body.
duh
My fingers blur across my phone, then wait impatiently for the next message.

Beep. Beep.
saweet. c u. btw, ur bf is coming

I smile. A rare sign of emotion. My face is usually stone still.
Why do I text so much?
Why can’t I stop?
Why is it that texting is like a drug to me. I can’t get it away.

I shop. I look at the phones.
I take a test. Friends text me the answers.
I sleep. I text.
I watch TV. I text.

Algebra would be easy if the equations were about my life. Only one equation would be needed. Me+Texting=Happy
But, am I happy? I don’t know. I forgot what happiness was a long time ago. Of course, there’s the dictionary definition: hap·pi·ness /ˈhæpinɪs/ [hap-ee-nis]
–noun 1. the quality or state of being happy.
2. good fortune; pleasure; contentment; joy.

I am addicted to texting. Please, help me.

Confessions of an Almost Lover

2008-02-18T00:12:16Z

Valentine’s Day. Ugh.
Why do we celebrate such pointless holidays?
I mean, what is v-day really about? Is it just another excuse for candy and gift-giving, or is it to make those of us with broken hearts feel even more alone?

Why can’t I get over him?
I mean, it’s been 2 years, 1 month, and 9 days..okay, maybe that’s why. But, he takes over my mind. Swirling around, screaming all my questions to him at me.
Why WHY WHY ?!

Hm, this reminds of lyrics to a song. Maybe if I ever see him again, I can sing them to him…

Your finger tips across my skin
the palm trees swaying in the wind; images.
You sang me spanish lullabys.
The sweetest silence in your eyes; clever trick.
I never want to see you unhappy.
I thought you’d want the same for me.
Goodbye my almost lover.
goodbye my hopeless dream.
I’m trying not to think about you.
can’t you just let me be.
So long my luckless romance.
my back is turned on you.
shoulda known you’d bring me heartache.
Almost lovers always do…