Chickengirl

Why can’t I write?  I ask myself for the twelfth time. Not that I’m counting.  Usually, I love writing, and I do it even when I’m not supposed to, like in the middle of math class.

These are hopes I hope
When there's nothing I can hope 
That could solve any of my problems
But I still need something to hope for

I hope that there will be oyster crackers with lunch today

And standing there in the middle of all that mess was my dear, old friend, with the most peculiar look on her face. 

“Maple?” I called tentatively, stepping over a tray of half baked cookies.

I pushed my dentist chair to the upright position and looked around nervously. It was probably just my imagination.

As she was rollerblading from the pickle factory at two am underneath a full moon, Chrysanthemum (who every one called 'Chris' to save time) saw that the lights in the Egglington Public Library were still on.

It was October, but Margot was still wearing short summer skirts. And humming Christmas carols. She really couldn't decide on a season. She loved summer, when she could swim in the river, and there was no school.