Hey guys!
I love the creative corner of ATARNotes, and seeing so many cool and different things that people have posted have inspired me to start my own thread! I hope that this will help remind me that even during the busiest times of school, I should spend some time away from the books and do something I really enjoy.
I love writing and do a lot of it (mainly short fiction pieces and poems). I also like to bake and cook as well as dabble in watercolour, calligraphy and photography.
laura <3
I thought I would start off with a piece I wrote: GRACIOUS
I am not stupid. Just because I choose not to speak, does not mean I am stupid.
It.
Does.
Not.
I want to scream it from the rooftops, but I doubt that anyone would understand my slurred speech, especially if they were busy or disinterested. Their purposeful hostility would ensure that none of the sounds that escape my lips would convey any meaning. If people with hearing would make the choice and open themselves up to understand deaf communities, deaf culture and deaf language, that they themselves would gain so much. The ideas and expressions of our community are rich and vast and anyone who cuts themselves off from that, out of confusion or fear is being ignorant.
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My feet felt heavy. They were dragged along the hostile grey concrete. Every lump on the bumpy footpath was felt through the thin soles of my runners. With my eyes downcast they continue to carry my body along the path speckled with dark green weeds poking through the cracks.
A car alarm startles the gloomy neighbourhood, snapping everyone else out of their tired trance.
Although everyone else on the street stands frozen for a second, Grace doesn’t react to the obnoxious high pitched noise.
“Look at the girl over there,” one stranger whispers to her husband.
“Which one?” he asks.
“The one with the huge blue coat on; she didn’t even notice the car alarm.”
“And?”
“It’s just a bit strange, that’s all,” she huffs.
“I mean a little.”
“Her boots are filthy! And why on earth has she got a hood on?”
“Maybe she’s cold. Why does it matter to you so much?”
“I just don't like strange dirty girls sculling around the neighbourhood, that’s all.”
A million eyes on me make me shiver, even though my coat. The strangers shoot icy daggers my way. I find my hand moves towards my hood and tugs it further over my face. As my eyes remain fixed on the ground, my feet take me up the stairs into a cafe.
Grace stands in the doorway, admiring the carpet. Eventually, she forces her glance upwards and meets the eyes of the peppy waitress. Her eyes work hard to decode the movement of red lines. They move from straight to oval and straight again, but most of the meaning is lost on Grace.
If I could hear her voice, it would be high pitched and energetic. I imagine that the words would come out loud and fast, like a babbling brook bubbling away. Her voice would match her large smile and bouncy gait.
Eventually, she realises that the waitress has told her to choose a table. Her shaky hand points towards the empty back corner. To most people, the corner is anything but inviting, but today it is just what Grace needs. The waitress nods and leads her to the back. Clumsy gears turn in her brain as she urges her mouth to choke out a slurred thank-you. The blonde waitress’ ponytail is already swishing as she skips back to the kitchen by the time the clumsy sound rumbles out of Grace’s throat. It stops her in her tracks and forces her to turn back towards her customer. She thinks about saying something and begins walking towards Grace. Then she decides not to and continues on her way back to the kitchen. She just leaves Grace standing there.
She just leaves me standing there. My body slumps and collapses into the hard wooden chair. The constant rumble of white noise is still in my head. I groan in frustration that the only sound that travels through my ears and reverberates around my skull is useless buzzing instead of meaningful communication. All high pitched noise is completely lost in the rumble of nothingness.
When I was three I stood at the traffic light holding my mother’s hand. My chubby fingers were intertwined with hers. Another little girl with her mum wandered down the path and planted themselves on the curb next to us. My slurred voice shouted a greeting that roughly resembled hello, unaware of the startling volume at which the sound escaped my lips. I waited expectantly for a reply. I carefully studied her little pink lips, watching and waiting to decode them. However, her reaction was anything but the friendly hello I had been hoping for. Her lips began to quiver and she began to cry. Wide pink ovals hollowed out and made way for the childlike scream to emerge. This unleashed waves of sad salt that drizzled from my eyes and ran down my cheeks. The little girl’s mother turned angrily to mine and said something that child-me did not understand. My mum, however, knew exactly what it meant and hurried away. She stopped at the nearest shop she could and bought an ice-cream to console me (although, I think she was in need of some consolation herself).
After a few minutes of looking over the menu, the peppy blonde waitress makes her way over to Grace’s table, bouncing ponytail and all.
“What do you want?” she asks slowly. Every word comes out of her mouth syllable by syllable. She unknowingly distorts her lips while she does this and therefore makes her question almost incomprehensible to her customer.
“Please speak normally,” Grace asks shyly. She does not mean to be rude or difficult but it is paramount to the way she communicates that the chalky red lines move as expected. Any disruption to their normal rhythm can greatly affect the decoding process. She can tell almost immediately that her request did not come out as nicely as she hoped. The waitress nods and smiles, but her eyes give away her displeasure. Her shoulders droop and her springy gait has become monotonous and lifeless.
“I’m sorry,” Grace says, startled at the thought of upsetting the poor young waitress.