had to write a short story draft for class. here it is:

All I could smell was dead people and cigarettes with a slight note of throat lozenges. Why does everyone in my family smoke like a chimney? While my mind wonders, the room fills with relatives I haven’t made contact with since 1999. Grandmas are talking to aunts and the kids are running around as usual. I do not want to be here, no one wants to be here. Between the old man with a nose whistle handing out memorial cards and the sound of all my aunts whimpering in the corner, I couldn’t take this any longer. I went up to my great grandfather and asked him for a cigarette and his lighter. Without hesitation, papa handed them over to me. I stepped out front where no one could see me. I felt so awkward dressed up. Well I guess you wouldn’t say I’m dressed up after all I am at my Mother’s funeral. I just felt different, wearing a dress with stockings and nice looking dress shoes. This was weird to me, the girl that dressed in loose fitting jeans and a band shirt every day. I couldn’t take all the sobbing anymore. In my mind I know this is a very sad time, but I was dealing with it all internally, like I wished my family would. If it’s not my aunt asking me questions, it’s my older brother showering me with gifts because he feels bad now. If he felt so bad why wasn’t he around before all of this? Why didn’t he show up to any of my birthday parties? Honestly I don’t care right now. As I take the last drag from my papa cigarette I hear someone approaching. “Oh honey you come here” my cousin Irene insisted.  While I’m trying to put out this cigarette she grabs me by the arm and wraps her body around mine. “Please tell me, do you need anything? You know your mother would have smiled to see you in this dress, she loved when you wore dresses.”  Irene was the cousin with twenty cats and red lipstick all in her teeth. She was a sweet lady, nice intentions, but I am in no mood for this. All I wanted to do was crawl in a hole, “No I’m alright” I mumbled. She gave me one last squeeze and held my hand as she continued to make it back inside. I don’t want to be seen with Cousin Irene, so I tell her I have to go to the back room to get my poem ready. When I was the age of ten I realized I wanted to grow up to be a writer. I loved all the creepy fiction books my mother would bring home to me. My mom worked at a library for most of her time and she always brought home books. I remember this one Stephen King book, The Shining, my mother could not get my attention that whole week. I was so engrossed into this book it wasn’t even funny. Books and writing are my life, thanks to my mother.  As I make my way to the back room I remember one thing, the locket. My mother gave me this necklace with a locket attached when I was four. She always told me to hold it close to my soul. Inside the locket was a picture of my mother and I to the right and to the left there was one wish. Mother always told me the story of her necklace locket, and she taught me how to save my one wish.  Now whether this one wish was real or not was my main concern right now. I wear this locket necklace every day of my goddamn life; even if it doesn’t match the outfit, I’m wearing it. As I walk down the dimly lit hall, I see the back room, finally peace and quiet. I see no one around to bother me so I lock myself in the back room. I look for the poem I wrote my now dead Mother. I knew I threw it somewhere in my journal. I have flyers from art shows in this journal, some old concert tickets, bits and pieces of my writings. Finally I spot the poem! It’s my own fault for being so unorganized. I reread the poem a few times in my head just to remind myself of what I wrote. Now I want to stand behind the podium and practice, as if I was in the room full of sad, red eyed relatives. I begin to speak and all of a sudden I feel overwhelmed. Confusing this feeling for what I already feel today, I ignore it and go on. I get to the second line in and all I see is a light; a very, very bright light. I know I didn’t turn the light on in here. I can feel my human body becoming very light: as if my weight was less than one bird’s feather. I’m reading the fourth line now as my body rises, my locket necklace around my neck and my poem in my left hand. All of a sudden I cannot hear myself recite this poem and then my Mother appears. “Honey oh don’t you look beautiful, as if you were the last red rose I see. Come over to me, just give me one last hug please,” my Mother whispered to me. Her delicate lips brushed across my cheek. “I told you sweetie, that one wish really exists.”