Noke: A Short Story

Being in the home was like a separate world, one between life and death. When I reached the outside world again everything seemed so fresh. There were bright yellow-green leaves that hung with an arrogant vivacity, cars that sped by with such fervor, wind blowing with verve and energy, lively children playing with a vivacious lust for life, and the vitality that exudes from the air into your lungs. I wanted to bring this energy into

Growing up in a small town near the border of Arizona, I had always displayed an interest in seeing the world–the different cities and sceneries. But at the same time, I felt at home in Arizona. I breathed for the desert air, the grinched-colored cacti, and the occasional roadrunners. Imagine my surprise when I found out, shortly after my parents split, I was moving to New York City.

After two long hours of traveling with nothing to look at but the passing trees, we finally arrived at the farm. As we piled out of the car, I looked at the dirt road we came in on and turned to the house. It was one story and had a red tin roof, surrounded by a large grassy field and then woods beyond that. Twirling around, I walked into the house and plopped onto the closes bed. As everyone else unpacked, I locked myself in the room like a petulant child.

I reached the apex of my adventure in Chinatown, easily my favorite part of the city. The lively Cantonese banter that echos through the streets leaves me wishing I could join it myself. The unique eateries in the ethnic center provide me with comestible gateways to the culture of my ancestors—well a quarter of them. It may not be the shiniest part of Boston, but to me it's the brightest. It’s lively, kinetic, and inviting. As hard as I tried, I could not get picture that fully captured each of these aspects. But the vitality of Chinatown can’t be experienced through pictures, it has to be discovered in

New York City, the shining icon of the American dream and the mixing pot of cultures, was but a name I knew when I was young. Nine years ago, I finally set foot on the fabled city when my family immigrated to the United States. The gigantic airport, JFK International, spanned for miles and its terminals stood proudly over the jumbo jets below. That night, nausea from the plane’s descension and the entropic movements of my aunt’s Jeep prevented me from seeing the outside world. I rested my head on my mom’s lap while still imaging what the city was like.

As one drives up the California coast, they will begin to notice several things. First, the general atmosphere shifts. The further north they travel from Los Angeles palms and golden beaches, the cities begin to lose their positive, sunny vibes. They go from beach villas to industrial apartments to suburban neighborhoods to run down harbor towns. The positive emotional vibrations emitted from such architecture slowly surrenders its grip on its surroundings to a grim, hopeless one. As new, booming cities fade into sleepy and ancient villages only occupied by drunken sailors and lost tourists, the traveler will soon realize they are in a much less pleasant place as where they originated their journey.

Tranquil gusts kissed my skin; the sweet sensation of a breeze and the rustle of the trees’ leaves sung me a lullaby. As I lie, back to my trampoline and limbs sprawled, my mind would undergo a sort of cleansing, ridding me of my troubles. My home held my childhood; it possessed memories that had accumulated from day one, intertwining and condensing them to forge a place that would bear peace and serenity. I never contemplated departure, even when it was apparent my parents sought for a better place to reside, for no place could replace my home. Alas, my assumptions were proven to be erroneous.

Our house on Orangeburg was not what we expected we all figured it would be like the one near Sherwood with a warm cheerful comforting fireplace and open armed trees gathered around in the front.The house on Orangeburg was crumbled like old ugly bread.Time had managed to make this house look irreversible the house was little more than a glorified shed.At least we don’t

As I paid my visits to Elkton, a new town revealed itself. Elkton was dying. The sign on the hardware store had fallen on one side, the movie store had bankrupted and closed, and the tiny library was a pathetic joke. I never went back to the thrift store, I had thrown away my stuffed animals long ago, and the place stank of cheap cigarettes. Worst of all, the little house I had once lived in was dead and vacant. Weeds almost swallowed the "For Sale" sign at the road, and a green film grew over the siding. To me, Elkton reeked of decay and hopelessness. I hated the

“…soon we had a vegie garden and chickens. The garage was divided into three rooms, one the lounge, then the kitchen, and a little room with just enough room for two beds for the kids. No running water, we had to get that from a pump just a couple of km away. No proper toilet, just a bucket, no bathroom, a babybath was all we

The car suddenly stopped and jolted me from my sleep. Disoriented, I looked around and tried to make sense of where I was and what I was doing. Over to my left, I saw my sister doing the same. Tall, blue, connected houses surrounded us and we were parked in the middle of a pristine parking lot. Green, luscious lawns sat in front of those blue houses. A gigantic tree surrounded by beautiful multicolored flowers sat to the left of a dumpster and a wooden sign with white script on it. “The Pointe at Stoneview,” I read to myself.

Making her way toward the sidewalk, she turned right on Doveland Drive. Without a car, Anita must walk two and a half miles to reach Forest Creek Lane, the predominantly upper-class part of town. As she walked, her stomach turned as if she had ridden a fast carnival ride and no matter what she tried to calm her nerves, her attempts were futile. When she reached the street, she couldn't help but stare in awe at the beautiful houses that lined it. Some had the latest car park in front, others had empty spaces while the owner was at work. Anita imagined handsome doctors carrying briefcases and housewives wearing wearing the latest fashions. Anita, at 22, still lived with her parents in the not-so-nice part of town, where houses where becoming dalapitated and the roads and sidewalks were cracked and never fixed. Always feeling as if she didn't belong where she lived, she often imagianed what it would be like to live as other

1From Chicago and St. Louis to New York, it now takes under two days in time and not more than a quarter century in cash; and from San Francisco, the outing is made in six or seven days, at an average cost of around one hundred and fifty dollars. The induction is plain that the displaced person of today has numerous favorable circumstances over his antecedent of a few years back. Yet, the points of interest here implied are piddling when contrasted and the expanded offices of acquiring great and shoddy area in each State and Domain of the Union.

As I walked out of the airport into new territory, I could immediately feel the change in atmosphere. The air once chilled from morning dew, had turned into radiating heat from the cement and metal structures in the evening sun. As I looked out in my jeans and tee-shirt, I felt out of place. I was surrounded by the 8.55 million people who populate New York City. Each person with their own style and demeanour. As I walked down streets in search of the correct subway stop with my church group, everyone could tell that we were tourists. We were lugging our impossibly heavy suitcases through the streets, down the unforgiving stairs, and onto the crowded subway. After walking up and down what felt like hundreds of steps and changed subway trains

The thick and dense San Francisco fog twists and turns between the magnificent arches of the Golden Gate Bridge; my father’s old 4RUNNER cuts through the intimidating fog like a hot knife through butter. It is August 28th, 2012; the first day at my new school, Stuart Hall for Boys. My heart flutters as the pistons of my father's car drive me into the unknown. That day the Golden Gate Bridge was my desert, my limbo, my passage from Pharaoh’s reign into The Promise Land. But, who knows, across the grand bridge could lie another Pharaoh, another escape, another long journey across the unknown desert.