STORY STARTER
Write a horror story about a creature who hides in people’s walls.
didn’t grow up like that
I didn’t grow up on a farm,
I wasn’t overly polite or rude.
I didn’t ride horses or drive tractors,
I wasn’t a gal nor a dude.
They’ve called me a woman
since makeup colored my face,
but I’m not a city or country girl.
I didn’t grow up in mansions,
I wasn’t so used to noise and smog.
I didn’t use taxis and buses,
I wasn’t elegant nor a hog.
They’ve called me a woman
since I learned to pick out my clothes,
but I didn’t grow up, not really.
I didn’t grow up like my mom,
not like my dad or my uncle,
not like my great grandma or my aunt,
I didn’t grow up with rumbles,
nor dinner parties or rodeos.
I grew up with Gen Z,
the generation who’s stuck.
They prefer to play video games,
scroll, sulk, rather than work.
I didn’t grow up like anyone
I’ve ever deeply admired.
I admire their work ethics,
the way they speak up.
But I don’t have that.
I didn’t grow up like that.
I don’t fault my mom,
not my dad,
but media and teenagers
and politics,
electronics.
Everything that broke
everyone I loved.
I see my grandma’s old church,
I see cowboy hats and cowgirl boots.
But I also see towering buildings,
parties and gossiping, charades and kahoots.
Gosh, why this generation?
I didn’t grow up in starvation,
I grew up middle class,
but I didn’t want to be rich.
I wanted to have horses
and rodeos and Dr. Pepper,
headphones and red dirt,
TV shows and books,
I wanted the best of both worlds.
I wanted a little more time
to enjoy the cartoons,
to enjoy the apple juice
and the sloppy Joe’s,
and the playground’s swings.
Even the friends I knew would leave.
I wanted to hear a bedtime story,
but I didn’t grow up that way.
I blast my country music
in my room, through my headphones,
echoing through the car.
I stole a cowboy hat from my friend,
I watched a rodeo.
But it’ll never be the same.
I still grew up with gossip,
media, politics, and video games.
I wish I could silence
the media in my walls.
The echo of it burns.
See, my brain is tired,
my limbs are sore.
Honestly, I’m bored.
I like my life
but I didn’t grow up
the way I wanted to be.
No offense to my parents,
it’s all the fault of me.
Crawling in my walls
is the voice of
who I wish I could be.