Woodstock Hills

December 17, 2009
By Cydney Shorkend BRONZE, Los Angeles, California
Cydney Shorkend BRONZE, Los Angeles, California
2 articles 0 photos 0 comments

As I make my way up the hill to get a good spot on the grass, I slowly spread my single, beaten up, old blanket across the green lawn a little ways before the edge of the hill. I sit down near a couple that are high out of their minds and wait with my legs crossed for the famous Arlo Guthrie to burst out “Coming into Los Angeles”, my all time favorite song. As I sit there alone for a about an hour, jamming to Melanie and The Who, a group of teenagers, about my age approach me.

“Oh, hey there! What to join us down by our van?”

I give them a stupid excuse like, “I can’t right now. I’m waiting for… a friend to meet me here…I’m sorry.”

They quickly leave, seeing as I was waiting for someone, or so I had them believe.

Now, I am alone again, very much relieved. I am left to discover the world in front of me. I slowly stand up from my blanket, look around cautiously—making sure those teenagers were out of sight, and place my foot onto the grass. I take a few more steps; almost tip toeing so that no one can see that I am actually moving forward, and I reach the edge of the hill. I peak a little to see what is happening, and as I look, I see the mass amounts of people. I’m definitely going to fall of this hill if I look any longer, so I hurry back to my blanket. I figure sitting in my spot and enjoying the music is just as good as watching the band play live in front of me. I then decided to just look at everyone around me and enjoy my surroundings.

Hearing their conversations and seeing how excited every one of them is, comforts me in a way. It was hard enough coming out here alone in the first place. As I look around, I see in the distance a group of boys sitting and enjoying the free atmosphere around them. Most of them wore nothing but old torn Levy jeans, colorful bracelets, and the majority was smoking. Most of them didn’t interest me at first, but I gave them all a chance.

The first tall and lanky boy sits on the left, somewhat alone on the side. He is relaxed and collected compared to many of the crazy hippies here. I’m sure he is on some crazy drugs to chill him out. He places his palms up along his legs, and sits there in a peaceful daze—not letting anyone interfere with his mellow mood. He seems to be making a statement as his proud chest protrudes to the sky. It is as if he was proclaiming, I’m here to enjoy myself. Everyone, leave me the hell alone. The fogy day makes his white, bear chest look untouchable, yet at the same time, so delicate and soft. I sit here, trying to make out his face, but he just remains there with his chest to the sky—swaying ever so slightly to the soothing electric guitar.

Next is the short and tan one. I have to squint my eyes a little to see his facial features since he is completely covered in mud from the radical mudslides earlier today. Yet, under that mud, I can make out his darker toned body. His muscles shoot out from under the muck that sits on his stomach. He is always touching the beautifully sculpted pack under his chest—using them as his weapon around the ladies. He makes small talk with a few of the girls that walk by him, ranting on about his six-pack and how much he bench-presses at the gym.

“Yeah, I work out. I’m working on an eight-pack this summer.”

The girls simply look down at him, then at each other and then giggle off. As I sit there, critiquing his physical stature—which is rather hilarious, I begin to look more at his face. Absolutely, positively, stunning. His eyes sparkle emerald green and honey, surrounded by a glossy white, which was almost as if he dipped them into a green candy syrup, after the ice cold snow cones were being made. The color itself blows my mind away.

The average slender boy I see catches my eye last. He seems to be nothing special; average height, blonde hair, deeply set brown eyes, and a lightly toned body. All aspects are average. Although something about him make me want to focus in on all the minor details. The deep inhales of smoke as he listened to the soothing music, the way he pushes his hair back, and his bright white smile. I can’t resist a good smile. I keep thinking that he will do something that will surprise me, but he is so calm and swift the way he presents himself.

I stop staring and rewind back to just enjoying the music. The sounds of Arlo Guthrie, which finally booms out loud, travels though my ears, across my mind, around my soul, and fall straight into my heart. I get up and spin a couple times, then leap through the air. As my eyes were now closed, I sing along to the rhythms and beats. Never have a felt this urgency to be crazy or even show people that I exist. Guthrie’s words glide back and forth through my heart taking over my body.

Coming into Los Angeles, brin’ in a couple of keys, don’t touch my bags if you please, Mr. Customs man!”

My heart begins to race over and over as the music gets louder and louder. Yet, as I was singing with my eyes closed, a picture of the last boy I saw earlier slowly appears. The boy who seems so average to me, really was this perfect boy I always dreamed of. I fall back onto my blanket out of breath, still with the picture of this boy in my mind.

A strong image of his hands intertwined with mine comes to me. I need a boy like him. The more I imagine him, the more I want him to be mine. I sit up with my eyes now open, and stare at him once more. I watch him talk to the girls sitting across from him in the light blue van. He seems more interested about what they have to say, rather then what sit below their chest. He is just the right boy for me, not interested in the most beautiful of girls.

This whole event is just a fun adventure for him. Being in the middle of a revolution, sitting on a hill listening to Keef Hartley and Jimmy Hendrix is what he loves. I wonder what would have happened if I had the courage to over there and talk to him. To maybe hear his voice just once. With all these thoughts going through my mind, I decided to get up, and make a move—a move to another hill where I would place my single, old blanket on another patch of grass where I sit with my legs crossed and wait for another group of boys for another day at Woodstock.

The author's comments:
A combination of the stylings of John Updike and the movie, "Taking Woodstock" truly inspired me to write this short story. I have always wanted to know what it would have been like to live in a time of a great revolution filled with music, drugs, and adventure. I thought it would be an interesting story to share with kids my age who can relate and discuss. From three days of acid trips, to dancing to soothing music, Woodstock seemed to be a a magical time.

Similar Articles


This article has 0 comments.


MacMillan Books

Aspiring Writer? Take Our Online Course!