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A place for Writing 12 students to read each other's writing, to critique, to suggest, to improve.
About Me
- Brad
- Former adult teacher who loves island beaches. Happy homebody and family man; once devoted dog owner, now without Tashi, my Tibetan Terrier. I prefer the absurdity of the imagination to the absurdity of imagining nothing.
6 comments:
When I was young I was less than careful with knives. Scars result from tiny errors in perception or, in my case, a reluctant bathing suit string. At 11, I was on a local swim team in Moody Park.
The day I cut the knuckle on my thumb was our party day. We’d have the whole pool to ourselves and could mess around to our heart’s delight.
Instead, I made an ill advised cut towards my own thumb as I struggled with my bathing suit’s string (used to tighten the waist).
I must say it was “interesting” to see the ends of the capillaries in the cut, a set of pink dots that very soon were obliterated by the blood welling up out of the wound. Ouch, ouch, ouch!
No open wounds or bandaids in the pool! That meant I could only wade around, my pulsating thumb held up in the air to keep it out of the water. Needless to say I didn’t have much fun at the party.
“Clang!” The moment I heard the noise, I didn’t know what to do because it was all over the place as if a bomb exploded.
When I was about eight years old, I was careless person so as I walked to a kitchen to poured water to a glass and as I was about to carry it outside I dropped a glass to a floor. As soon as my mom and my sister heard it, they didn’t care because they thought I wasn’t in a kitchen.
Here I was, cornered by broken glass; I didn’t know what to think, but to step over all the broken pieces. As I was walking, the broken pieces were all over my feet and I guess I was numb to feel the pain. As I sat down next to my sister, she screamed and my mom was too because my feet were covered with blood.
As my mom and my sister were helping my feet to be uncovered by the pieces, my sister asked me,
“Why didn’t you scream? Can’t you see how painful that must’ve been for you?”
I just smiled at her, and as I was poke through the broke piece on my ankle to get it out, it went deeper and deeper. And as I was getting it out by hand, it went inside that I couldn’t get it out. But when my mom saw what I’d done to my ankle she started to scold me.
And to this day, I still don’t know what happened to the broken glass that got into my body. But sometimes, I have this sharp feeling in my heart.
Warning kids! Do not play around with a machete’. I have a sizable reminder on my left hand from one of those big knifes and I feel lucky to have it. I could have hacked off a few fingers or even my whole hand.
I had recently purchased the monster weapon from an army surplus store and even made sure it was sharpened before testing it on some innocent and unsuspecting vegetation. My friend and I couldn’t wait to play jungle in a thick growth of bushes and trees near my home and I quickly began to throw the enormous blade around like a wild man.
Little did I know how little I knew about using the deadly tool. As the blade swung around after slicing through some soft plants it struck me on the left hand. Talk about surprise and shock. Not only was there massive amounts of blood all over my hand but it was spurting out like a fountain. I must have severed an artery and the thick red liquid was shooting out like tiny garden hoses. Quickly, my friend removed his shirt and wrapped it around my wounded hand as I began to gently apply pressure to stop the bleeding. Thanks to him I was able to stop the bleeding until I arrived at the local hospital emergency room.
I don’t remember how many stitches it was to sew up my hand again but when the doctor had to open the wound to clean and inspect it there was clearly bone visible and I almost fainted. I guess that’s why I was really shocked by the movie “127 hours” because I will always remember that day as the day I almost became one handed.
It was a warm summer day, a good day to beat my “cousin” at basketball. She wasn’t really my cousin. We just called each other that as we were like family. I was 12, she was 13. She was better than me at everything, not to mention, taller than me too. But this time, I’d stand up to the challenge.
We were in my friend’s driveway shooting hoops. It may have been the two of us against my cousin, I don’t remember. But it wouldn’t surprise me. It would have taken the two of us to beat her.
Ok, she had the ball. She was heading for a lay up. I went in to check her. I’d get her this time! One step, two steps, I lunged for the ball as she stretched her arms to shoot . . .wait, my leg is caught in hers. I start to trip and fall. Oh, no, here we go...this is gonna hurt.
I hit the asphalt driveway hard and slid - on my bare arms to break the fall.
Ouch. The game ends abruptly. I don’t remember if I started crying. (Let’s just say I didn’t). I was never really crazy about the sight of my own blood. It was all over both arms at the elbows.
I don’t remember exactly what happened after that. I think my cousin escorted me home, just across the street, and helped me clean the wounds and bandage me up.
How humiliating. I set out to beat her and instead, I have reminder scars on my elbows of my defeat, decades later.
-265 words
Do i have an unforgettable scar? Yes, I do. It’s located under my right sole. When people talk about scars they often get emotional and they like to say, “I got a scar for life”. It’s good my scar is not a keloid scar, which means and is referring to a tough heaped-up scar or sometimes brownish scar that rises quite abruptly above the rest of the skin. By the way, for your information it is an ugly scar, thanks God i don't have it.
I remember when I was young I used to play outside our house especially during rainy season without slippers. Most of the children in the vicinity were out to enjoy the day. My playmates and I jumped and played through the rain. As soon as we’re tired, we walked down and rested for awhile under the mango trees. After few minutes, we walked again to the park closer to our house. While we are walking, I didn’t notice I stepped on a piece of broken bottle that incised my right sole about 3 cm lengths. The blood came out profusely. I was terrified and my playmates were so scared, but I remember I didn’t cry. I walked in a limping manner until I reached my home. My parents asked me “What happened?”, and then I told them my story. My mother cleansed my wounded sole and wrapped it with a bandage.
My wound healed, but a car was there that reminded me of my youth playing under the rain without slippers. Now, that I am a parent, I always give advice to my children not to go out without slippers or be extra careful while walking as there might be a broken glass or bottles that could hurt them.
---290 words---
Ms Accident-Proneness
I easily hurt myself when I was little. Curiousness, clumsiness and carelessness caused accidents that made me scar.
I got my first scar at 9 or 10 months old. One day, when I was crawling and searching something interesting in the house, I fell from the second flood and rolled down on the stairs to the main flood. The scar is still clearly on my forehead near the left eyebrow.
After going to school, I got more scars--cut by paper or grass, stuck by pencil or tack, scratched by rough round or my own fingernails, burnt by hot water or a lampshade, and I even was pushed by a elder student on the playground and got a red scratch on my nose and that made me fell so ugly that I was unwilling to go to school.
The most serious one happened at my age of nine. A summer afternoon, I excitedly rode on my dad's new motorcycle, which was stopped in front of the door. I rolled the handles and shook left and right, made a rumbling sound like working engine, imagined I was riding on the road. Suddenly, I lost balance and fell down. My right knee was broken by a piece of steel on the side of the engine, and blood spurted out. I screamed. My mom ran out of the house to see what happened. She stopped the bleeding, applied some antibacterial ointment, and bandaged my wound. It's about 3 or 4 centimeters length, long enough for a kid. I would never forget how naughty I was.
Even I started working, I still got some scars occasionally. Once I cut my left index finger when I was finishing a layout. There was no computer at that time. So, designers had to cut the copies of photos and high print of the typing of texts to do the finished art. I pared a piece of my finger top and couldn’t stop bleeding. Finally, my colleague took me to the hospital. The nurse nursed the wound very well. I can't see what was on the finger now.
When I was young, my mother derided me I had unusual legs because I tumbled often. I think I'm really accident-prone. I just fell and down and scratched my right palm last month when I rushed to pick up my children. I just burnt a small skin on my left waist by splashing hot soup when I was cooking last week.
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