Humans is powered by Vocal.
Vocal is a platform that provides storytelling tools and engaged communities for writers, musicians, filmmakers, podcasters, and other creators to get discovered and fund their creativity.
How does Vocal work?
Creators share their stories on Vocal’s communities. In return, creators earn money when they are tipped and when their stories are read.
How do I join Vocal?
Vocal welcomes creators of all shapes and sizes. Join for free and start creating.
To learn more about Vocal, visit our resources.Show less
Blue or purple skies. It’s better when the sun has gone down and the moon is slowly rising. The deep purple, mixing with the dark blue; coexisting with one another. Pink lines streaming through like a river. Hint of orange from the sun disappearing behind the buildings. The stars never show themselves at night in the city. Too many lights; way too many lights. Every now and again a black dot soars through the clouds, naming themselves bats. The moon was completely full like the roundness and paleness of a fat man’s belly.
Okay I am not a writer. I am an artist and a very good one at best. Time passes quickly when I’m really into a sketch. I’m not dedicated to one type of art; I love it all. Pencil drawings, painting, charcoal, photography; ALL of it. The jeans I am wearing now are stained with paint. The smell of turpentine lingers on most of my clothing.
A noise catches my attention from a distance making me shift uncomfortably on the porch swing. Chirping of the crickets is gradually getting louder. Shadows seeming to lure closer toward me makes the night more eerie. I shiver. Standing up, grabbing my sketchbook, putting it in my bag and running into the house as quickly as I can. My bare feet thudding softly on the hard wooden floor of my living room.
I swish around as if I belong into a matrix movie. I see my lovely mum standing there coming from the kitchen; a dish towel in her hand. “Yes, mummy dear.” I give her my cheesy obedient daughter smile.
“Lose the attitude,” she says, her voice sounding sweet, but fake. My smile falters. “Do you realize what time it is? It’s after ten.”
“Your curfew is at nine. It’s ten thirty-six.” She puts her hands on her hips. My mom is what you would call a trophy wife.
“It’s Friday, mom. I shouldn’t even be home; I should be out having fun with friends. I need space to grow!” I moan my frustration. I look down at my bare feet, if she paid any attention she would know I’ve been home since school let out.
“You’re fifteen, you have enough space to grow in this house and when you’re at school, dear,” mum says with her ‘Mother Knows Best’ voice. She is right, this house was big enough to grow a hundred people in it and I’m not even exaggerating. Our house is like a museum. If you haven’t guessed yet, my father is rich, like millionaire rich. He’s a big movie producer guy, which is pretty awesome in my opinion, but married to the wrong woman. He also owns eighty-nine or so wine venues around the country. Awards decorated all around the mansion screaming out his accomplishments in life.
“I wouldn’t call twiddle dee and twiddle dum friends,” my older brother’s voice rang in my ears. I huff and puff. I am the wolf and he is the smart little piglet with the brick house. Why can’t he be the piglet that built his out of straw? I press my lips together hard then blurt out. “Call them that again, David and I’ll rip your face off!”
“VERONICA!” Oops. David snickers, his brown hair sticking out in every direction almost like he had been rolling around in his bed. I roll my eyes and face my mum, knowing I am going to be in trouble for this.
“What?” I pretend not to know what she’s talking about.
“Go up to your room now! You are grounded for a week! But first apologize to your brother,” mum says, furious. If she were ‘human’ her face would be red, but that would disrupt her perfection. I don’t know how she does it.
“What?! Did you hear what he called my friends?” I ask, defending my friends’ honor for the hundredth time in my whole existence.
“Fine, I’m sor…sor… Can’t do it, it hurts too much,” I massage my throat, rubbing at my pretense pain.
“Ronnie…” my mother repeats.
“Gotta run! Goodnight; love you!” I ran upstairs not looking back, my messenger bag hitting against my thigh with each step. Hearing my brother’s laughter, I growl under my breath. These are the times I wish I was an only child.
I finally get to the graffiti door of my room. My name ‘Ronnie’ seem to be leaking down the wood of the door. Colors swirling in different ways, my first piece of art, not counting elementary work. I trace the spot a butterfly used to be painted there years ago; it’s weird how it just disappeared months before, where did it go?
Going into my room, I smile dropping my bag on the floor. Laying my sketchbook on my computer desk, I strip out of my jeans into a comfy pair of sleeping pants with green peace signs scattered all over them. I lit an incense and crawl into bed. I reach for the novel, The Great Gatsby I have to read for school on my nightstand. I'm about to open it when my cell phone goes off. I slide over a bit to grab my phone from my bag. I see it’s a text from my friend Tristen Pridemore.
Don’t forget to bring your history homework when you come over. Thx! (:
I drop my phone, rolling over to go to bed; forgetting about the book altogether.