From the Journal of Joel M. Wilder

Nov. 15

Mr. Piper, my counselor, wants me to write in this journal whenever I feel out of control or lost or angry or anytime I can’t hold it in anymore. I don’t think there’s enough paper in this notebook. He says he won’t read it, but I don’t believe him. I don’t believe in anyone or anything. Not anymore.


Nov. 25

Happy Thanksgiving. The cooks went all out today. When I got my tray, I’m sure what the pale slab of whatever is supposed to be. Fake mashed potatoes I recognize, and a pile of canned peas that look more like rabbit shit than actual food, and a rock hard roll. Yum.

“Great, huh?” Mercer says, grinning. He scoops up some peas and stuff them in his huge mouth. I nearly puke.

I shrug, thinking about the turkey dinner I’m missing. Mom would have made pumpkin pie, like she always did, and probably pecan pie, too. Everyone would be sitting around the table, Andrea and Don and his family, the Nazi and Mom. Do they miss me? Or is it a relief I’m not there?



Nov. 27

Mom comes to see me today and brings some cookies and a slice of pecan pie from Thanksgiving dinner. She can’t stop crying, which really makes me feel like crap. She keeps saying she’s sorry. Sorry for what?



Dec. 12

I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help thinking about Cass, about what it felt like to hold her, to kiss her. It hurts that I will never do that again. I’m not stupid. Even when I do get out of this hole, nothing will be the same. I know she must hate me, her and everyone else in that stupid little town. Derek was the Golden Boy, and me, I was nothing. Am nothing. Will be nothing. Forever and ever, amen.


Dec. 13

You know, this just sucks. The food sucks. The people here suck. I suck.

Is this what you wanted, Piper, you asshole? I know you’re going to read this. Read it and laugh at what a loser I am. There’s a big ‘L’ on my forehead now, or maybe it was always there and everyone saw it but me.


Dec. 15

Piper tries to get me to talk about the Nazi today. Wants to know why I call him that.

“That’s disrespectful,” he says, giving me one of those condescending looks. “Did it ever occur to you that perhaps some of your conflict with your father stems from your lack of respect for him?”

I just glare because there’s nothing to say. Piper steeples his fingers and peers at me over the top. “And perhaps his lack of respect for you?” Guess he’s not as stupid as I thought.




Dec.19

Have a lovely visit from the parents. Mom is all touchy-feely, hugging me, touching me like she thinks I’m going to disappear or something. I wish. She brought me more cookies.

“You’re too thin, Joey. Don’t they feed you here?”

“Of course they feed him,” the Nazi says impatiently. As usual he doesn’t look directly at me, only somewhere off to the side. The only time he ever acknowledges my existence is when I’ve screwed up.

“You know what the lawyer said, Marcy. This is the best place for him.” He paces back and forth, from the window overlooking the yard and back to the cracked vinyl couch where me and Mom are sitting.

Mom doesn’t say anything, just keeps squeezing my hand.

“It could have been much worse, you know,” he goes on, staring out the grimy window. “He’s lucky the prosecution didn’t push for him to be tried as an adult.”

“Define ‘lucky’,” I mutter, and bingo! He sees me now. I thought his head was going to explode. Mom gets up and plays her usual role of peacemaker.

“Paul, don’t. He’s upset. Try to understand.”

“After destroying so many lives, this is much, much less than he deserves.” The Nazi snarls the words, throwing them in my face. His fists are clenched and I know he would have hit me if he thought he could get away with it.

Whatever. They leave not long after that. I guess the Nazi is right, I am lucky. If lucky is the right word.


Dec. 20

No matter what I do, I can’t stop thinking about that night. Why did I take the keys? Just because Derek called me a chicken shit? I knew better. I should have blown him off instead of Cass. If I had, Derek would still be alive and I’d still have Cass. I’d still have a life. Now I have nothing. Nothing but grief and regret.

God, I want to die.


Dec. 24

I think I started hating Christmas right around the time my grandpa died. It happened a week before Christmas.

I was at my grandparents’ house helping them decorate the tree. It was something I did every year since Andrea decided she was too old for that and Don left for college. It was every cliché you could possibly imagine: Balsam wreath on the door, cookies baking in the oven, Christmas carols playing on the stereo. God, I loved it over there.

And then, right when Grandpa lifted me up so I could put the star on top of the tree, he sort of staggered and dropped me. I couldn’t believe it. I fell right into the tree with him on top of me.

I can still hear Grandma screaming his name. The branches scratched the heck out of my face and arms, but that wasn’t what hurt the most. After he died, I never went over to their house again.

I was only ten, and can you believe my folks never talked about it with me? Not even Mom. Guess they wanted to forget it ever happened. That’s pretty much the way they deal with unpleasant stuff, just pretend it never happened. Like when all that stuff went down with Carly. As soon as it was over, Mom and the Nazi never said another word about it. As far as they were concerned, nothing had changed. They were still the good parents who went to church and did the best they could with their rebellious, trouble-making son. Martyrs. And did those hypocrites ever suck it up. For a while, anyway. Until all the details came out and they asked the Nazi to step down and we left KC and came to this lousy excuse for a town. All my fault, of course. That we had to leave the church wasn’t one of those things they could pretend never happened. Kinda hard to when church work is what you do. Now the Nazi sells insurance and my mom works in a preschool.

And their rebellious, trouble-making son is in prison. Oh, excuse me. Youth facility.


(c)2008 W.S. Ribelin

so now

So now I'm writing again. Working on the novel, sort of. It's actually a journal chronicling Joel's experiences after he is sentenced to a youth detention center after everything has happened. It seems to be going well, but what about the actual novel?

Well, whatever works, right?

Yeah, I thought so.

Consider the Audience

So the reception was good. I was a little nervous about getting up in front and reading my story, but by the time it was my turn there weren't very many people still there. The listeners liked it, got several very nice compliments including one from a lady encouraging me to get it published. :-)

Then I was invited to read some of my work at a Teen Poetry Slam at the library a couple of days ago. Expecting a room full of teens, I decided to read some of my more 'adult' works--"Let Them Eat Cake", "Lazarus", "A Knight's Work". Should have just read "The Washwoman's Daughter" because there was barely anyone there. And then the second place winner in poetry read a cutesy story about Buzzy Bear, and that's when I knew I wasn't going to read. Also there was a grade schooler there as well.

Eh, no biggie. I ought to look around town for an open mike night, although I'd hate to go by myself!