The Subconscious Mind

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Other  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a very small sample of work that I have recently been working on. Critiques would be great. I really want to improve my writing in so many ways.
This is basically about a teenager who considers herself lifeless, and often finds herself stuck in her own thoughts.

Submitted: April 22, 2015

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 22, 2015



“Sit down,” my mom said in a raspy voice. Pollen. It was everywhere, and it always made her wheeze. I slumped down on the couch, praying it wasn’t for the reasons I thought it’d be for. Kik, Snapchat, iFunny, Skype. The words floated around in my mind like clouds, but throbbed as if each time I thought of each app, it was like a dagger to the stomach, over and over and over…

“Mrs. Huppert said that the extra credit--”

“I know,” I said gravely. “Both her and Dad told me,”

“Do not interrupt,” she said pulling out her 6 inch cell phone. Slowly and passionately she read off the long conversation she and my teacher probably had this morning. All because of a B. When she finished, I was looking straight ahead, my reprieve of her not finding out about anything on my phone being drowned out by her scrutinization.

“We cannot accept a B, young lady,” my mother said formally. “We know you can do better. We as parents…”

As parents you should accept I’m trying.

“...want to help you succeed. At the same time, we do not want to overwhelm you, and Mrs. Huppert does not want that either,” she continued, softening her tone.

You’re already overwhelming me with this lecture.

“But to do that, your father and I believe…”

Believe? Why not just say “We’re going to punish you for not reaching our parental standards?”

“...that you should be more focused on your studies rather than texting, and talking, and ‘hangin’ out’, you get the point, don’t you?”

I wish I didn’t. I inwardly sighed.

My mother then began talking about how this would affect my high school, and how success, if not done properly, can lead to disaster and ruin your life. This talk had happened so many times this year, I honestly felt like screaming, running, something to avoid it.

“I’m very disappointed in you, sweetie,” she continued after her college prep. speech.

Don’t call me “Sweetie” if you’re disappointed.

“I just don’t understand it!” different tones began playing into her voice as she went on, starting with exasperation. “You always get A’s on homework, and participation…”

A hinderance in her voice, expecting me to finish. I kept my mouth closed.

“...and then I get to your tests.” she said. A long pause, probably expecting my opinion. She knew I wouldn’t open my mouth.

Here it comes.

“Homework: A. Participation: A. Test: B. Quiz: C Test: D. Honestly, what is up with this? We cannot accept failure like this!” dismay dripped like honey from her voice like molasses; slow.

Her last words echoed dreadfully through my mind. I began to feel more and more pained about failing so many times, more depressed in my failed efforts to please them, more malaise in my own soul.

“She wants an answer.” my dad demanded coldly. I just shrugged. I could feel my pulse rising to my throat.

“You’re such a smart girl, and so beautiful,” my mom complimented. I kept my stare forward, and blank.

What does beauty have anything to do with my “failing”?

“Which is why we know you can do so much better,” my dad said unhelpfully, again.

“Like I said earlier, there will be restrictions to help you achieve your goal,” my mother said. Another long pause.

It’s not my goal anymore. I tensed, getting ready for whatever… whatever groundage they were about to appall onto me. It always felt like daggers as she spoke.

“From now on, you will not have your phone, and I will decide when you get it back.”

One dagger.

“You will only get online for textbooks, checking your grades, or anything else relating to scholarly topics only.”


“We will be watching you very carefully this time, and you will not sneak anything in. No secret conversations with some public, dangerous chat.”

Oh. Okay. There go my chances of conspiring with ISIS. Another dagger, I thought derisively. I almost instantly thought of Skype, and felt horrible. I’d have to figure out some way of telling him without them breathing on my back. He had to know.

“The only time you are to leave your room is to use the restroom, or to get dinner.”

The fourth, and final dagger.

“So I’m grounded,” I said flatly.

“No. Groundage is unfair, and treacherous to treat children like that,” my dad said loftily. I wanted to get the 1,000 page dictionary, look up the word groundage, and scream that what they had just said was the exact definition of grounding a child.

“Go work on your homework,” my mother said after another additional pause. I got up and walked silently to the study, and had almost considered walking outside and never returning until I could figure out my own subconscious mind.  


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