Ring.

I looked down at my right hand. I had forgotten to put back on my ring for the first time in months, and my ring finger felt naked. I hated that strange sensation of a nonexistent ring. Nothing I could do about it now. I'll just have to wait to get home before I can clothe the knobby twig that grew out of my palm. Something caught my eye. A mosquito bite? I looked closer. It was then I noticed the skin where my ring had been was dry, red, and cracked. The wrinkles in just that part of skin looked almost fifty years older than the rest of my almost twenty-year-old hand. That had never been there before.

"Don't worry," my sister assured me, when I showed her. "It happens to me all the time. It'll just crust over and peel off in a few days, and your finger will be good as new." Apparently I've worn my ring for too long.

I waited, and sure enough, my finger is healing. The dead, dry skin that made my finger look diseased is peeling. The cracks and wrinkles are no longer dirtying my finger. Now it is as good as new.

I've worn this visage, this mask, too long. Each sin, each wrong-doing, each foul act I have committed has been pushed under and hidden by this mask. Then it's left there to be forgotten, to rot and decay. For the first time in months, I've forgotten to put my mask back on. The skin underneath has become dry, cracked, and wrinkled irritated skin. It's a strange sensation- I feel naked, and vulnerable. All who I love and adore are seeing me for what I am. I am ugly. I am diseased. They turn away in disgust. Give it some time, the dead skin will peel off, and I will be healed, I tell them. They look, hesitant to come back. The skin under my mask is healing, and I will be good as new. Then we can carry on like nothing happened.

However, there is still a white mark where my ring once laid, despite the healed skin. A reminder of something that once was.

Perhaps I should hide the imperfection with my ring.

Scars.

She traced her fingers around the marred patch of skin on his chest. "Tell me again, how you got your scar," she requested. Every time it was a different story, filled with actions of bravery and matters of life and death. She knew how he really got the scar- he had a severe heart condition when he was an infant. But she enjoyed the bizarre and vivid interpretations of what it could have been. Soon, he'd become her first scar.

Her thumb brushed his cheekbone, feeling the concave hole under his eye. "What did you do to get that scar?" she questioned. He looked at her sternly, a glimmer of playfulness in his eye. He made up an elaborate story of getting into a fight for defending his honor, all sorts of weaponry and fight skills used. How brave! The cut under his eye was the only thing we walked away with! It wasn't long before he confessed the truth of removing a cancerous mole. She preferred the other story, but she wouldn't let him know. He became her second scar.

They had been walking around aimlessly, talking of this and that, whether or not the subjects of their discussions was important. He was wearing shorts that day, and as he sat down, she saw the edge of the shiny fabricated skin right above his knee. "May I inquire as to what happened?" He chuckled, and spoke of an accident involving scalding olive oil burning his then eight year old legs. No wild or elaborate stories, just the simple truth. Unbeknownst to her, he became her final scar.

Almost three years later, she finds herself looking at her reflection in the mirror. Her naked body is smooth as marble, not a single mark in sight on the surface. Her eyes stared. They had changed, but how? Why is it that her eyes are so dark anymore, instead of the bright, happy, vibrant eyes they once were? There was no sign of this transition on the surface. Perhaps if she delved deeper. She then opened her chest to peer inside her own self, scanning, searching for the cause of this change. Why? Why was there this unspoken and inexplainable sadness in her eyes that she was so incapable of hiding from the rest of the world, no matter how strong her vain attempts became? Nothing seemed to be strange or out of place. She searched and searched, scrutinizing every little detail. She was about to give in and give up until- wait- something's not right. And there it was- what she had been looking for. Right there. Slightly to the left of the center, under her ribcage, three deep, shiny scars glistened in the light on the casing of her heart. Surrounding the scars were some scratches and some bruises, but those didn't hold any permanent effect. Scratches heal and bruises fade. Scars are eternal. And whether she liked it or not, she would have to live with these scars for eternity. She closed her chest and sewed the fabric together. She clothed her naked body, and walked away from the mirror with an altered glint in her eye.

At least she finally understood. Now it is not something that can hold her back.

The Peacock.

"Of course I've thought these things. But I would never say them aloud, for saying them aloud would make me vain and narcissistic."

The wrinkled, elderly woman stared at the young girl through the reflection of the mirror intently, searching, observing, and then replied,

"No, my dear. You are mistaken. No matter how hard you try to hide it, your vanity is evident in your eyes."

For My Teachers.

Prose: Write a 250-350 word essay on what inspired you to become an educator.

This is my response.

Teachers have always been given far little credit, when they in reality deserve the world and more in return to what they have provided us. How are we to succeed, exceed, and accomplish anything if not for the education our teachers have bestowed upon us? I know that I would be lost out in the tempest tossed seas had I not the teachers I had to provide me with the winds, a compass, and the stars for guidance. It was the teachers that nurtured, that cared. They entrusted me with wisdom and knowledge far beyond any of my expectations. My teachers weren't there to get a small paycheck at the end of the week so they can pay their bills and provide for their families- they were there to educate, to impart their wisdom, to make us students truly understand and feel the passion that they felt. My teachers weren't just teachers. They were human beings, each with their own histories and experiences and stories. They felt emotion, they had passions, they had once loved and lost, once triumphed and failed. They were us, and we were them. I always had been eager to see what would come next, for each day was a new adventure. My teachers never left me in the dust, as a weed waiting to be trampled upon and pushed back into the earth in disgust and shame. I was a sapling of a talent in every area of education. They were trees themselves once, and they planted their seeds inside of each of us, including me. My teachers took the time to water me, to prune me, place me in fertile soil, so that I may grow into a large tree, filled with knowledge, and the large tree shall provide so many resources for others. I hope to someday grace the blessing upon another as they have blessed me, plant my seeds and grow my trees, and guide those lost souls in the raging sea.