Hey all ^^
So… its been *forever* since I’ve posted something.. lol
well… for lack of anything better to post… XD I’m gunna post the cutting of an oral interp I’m gunna do for speech class because it pwns all and is freakin amazing!! XD
its called Far-Off Yellow by Jasmine Hu. enjoi! 
In the first six years of my life I had known no other world than the four walls of my room. It wasn’t until I was three that I realized I didn’t look as a child ought to – it was the storybooks, full of pictures of Dick and Jane with their smooth faces and fair hair. There were no mirrors in my room but the hazy reflections in the wood of my desk told me that my face looked different. I begged mother to tell me the truth. That was how I knew I was grotesquely, hopelessly deformed. I hadn’t wept, I hadn’t wondered about the source of my deformities, hadn’t felt horrified. What difference did it make when only Mother could see me? She thought I was beautiful, and so I was beautiful. Until that day. I had been perhaps eight. She had been wearing a yellow sweater. She was a girl my age and she sat on the obsidian sidewalk and sketched a tree. After a while she collected her drawing and left. I saw her often from then on – in the late afternoon she would sit on the sidewalk, watching the world with bright eyes. I should mention that my days were not divided into months. Books were how I kept track of time. The first time I saw her, it was during Love in the Time of Cholera. During Love in the Time of Cholera my feelings for the girl outside my window plunged deeply into love. I don’t know what drew me to her, but I loved her beyond all measure of men or stars. I wept when I realized that this was unrequited love at its most pathetic – when one did not even know the other existed and would never have any hope of knowing. With each book I read, she acquired a new identity. Eventually she became a beautiful conglomeration of Elizabeth Bennett’s fire and Antigone’s fierce courage. I knew very little truth of her, but what I did know I repeated to myself. She liked to read and draw trees. She liked the color yellow. I knew I would never speak to her, but I yearned for a way to communicate, to know she wasn’t a figment of my imagination. So when I was twelve and reading To Kill a Mockingbird, I came up with the idea to play Boo Radley and leave gifts in the knot of her tree. A gift – my own crude watercolor of the tree, all gnarled branches and splotched brown leaves with a dab of yellow near the base. I had stayed in my house for twelve years, and the outside world was something to be wary of. But the need to show the girl that I loved her became so extreme that I knew I had to open the door. I placed a scarf over my face, frightened that the streetlights would reveal me to anyone. Quietly I turned the knob of the front door and took my first step onto the sidewalk. Now, some words in the books made sense. Constant. True-fixed and resting. Under the stars’ gaze I walked to the tree and slipped my painting in. When she came the next day, she did not notice it when she sat down, but just as her pencil traced the knothole, she stood up. I watched. Slowly, she took out the watercolor, white paper illuminating her face and her smile. This was one of many paintings. In all of them I included a misty yellow. She always tucked them away. Once, I slipped an old portrait into the tree. The next day, a note – Thank you, my ghost. I decided to give her an elaborate painting of a peacock, but just as I was about to place the painting, footsteps startled me. It was her. I dropped the painting and was about to run when she grabbed my arm. “Wait, I’m not here to hurt you.” The sight of her so close made me feverish. She glowed softly before the night sky. “Where do you live?” I pointed at my house. “How old are you?” “Thirteen,” I said. “I’ll be thirteen next Tuesday.” I felt for the scarf. I wondered if she’d ask me why I wore it. She didn’t. From that day on we met often, but I was not used to interacting. She sense this and made up for my gaps in conversation. I had long ago been convinced that I knew her, and now I had to acquaint myself with a whole new person. But gradually I felt that I loved her more than any preconceived notions. Slowly, I told her why I wore the scarf, why she could never see my face. I lived in perpetual fear of losing her if a chance wind caused the scarf to flutter off my face. I lent her books. When I first handed her Love in the Time of Cholera, her eyes had grown wide. With every book I lent her she seemed to acquire a steadier glow, until one day during my nineteenth year she told me that she didn’t care, that love was blind, that she loved me, that she might have to go away soon, but could we get married? For one moment I saw my far-off yellow up close. She was bright and beautiful, and could not have a veil for a husband. I told her no. She left me and the tree died afterwards. I grieved madly, throwing my books and paints at the dead tree at night. And then one night I opened up Love in the Time of Cholera, sat down and wrote a perfectly composed letter telling her we could be married after I sought treatment. I left the letter in the knothole, took my books and left. I spent three years searching. Gradually, I gained information from other outcasts, and this labyrinthine path to my cure continued. There was no cure in sight until I got my lead from a hooded man. He told me to see Dr. 1244 and to say that I had a yellow mask. I arrived at the doctors office the next day and the receptionist led me to a hidden door in the wall. A man with a white coat and glasses came in. He said he was Dr. 1244. I took off my scarf and a small convulsion escaped him. He handed me a page of dense words and told me to skim it. A Great War sixty years ago… Catastrophic consequences… Our Federation – leading biotechnology – won with Mutagen Yellow… Transformed genetics of soldiers – a few managed to have children. Children were… “Deformed.” Dr. 1244 said. “Grotesquely deformed in such a manner that no cosmetic surgery could have repaired them.” He looked at me. “The soldiers died off very soon. The children lived. The Federation did not have the resources to solve a human rights crisis, so they mandated hospitals to kill these children. Three thousand infants were silently, secretly murdered. I was one of the scientists responsible for inventing Mutagen Yellow.” His face turned skeletal as he spoke. “It took me almost your entire lifetime to perfect the cure. I began my treatment. It was pain at its most base and electric, and I might have screamed but was too delirious to notice. During my forty-fifth session, the alignment of my features had shifted; the treatment was complete. My face was smooth and chiseled, strange and human. I gave Dr. 1244 almost all my books in thanks and left. She would be waiting for me. I saw her from a distance, standing in her yellow sweater. I ran to her, laughing. She smiled, tears running down her face. “I knew it was you.” I told her I loved her. She said we would live out an eternity together. Then I realized she did not look into my face. “Don’t you see how I’ve changed?” And then I noticed the thin film of white over her eyes. I felt horribly sick. “I don’t see much anymore, my ghost. Love is blind.” “No-” “Now you don’t have to worry about hiding your face. I got the idea from that book, Oedipus-” I began to weep. And as her hands fumbled for my tears, she felt the smooth regularity of my features. Her beautiful blind eyes widened in shock. She hadn’t received my letter. “Its all right,” I held her fiercely. “I’ll read to you every night.” As I held her my tears mingled with a far-off yellow I knew she could not see.
Voila! isn't it amazing? ^^ lol
