Saturday, July 26, 2008

Wistful Thinking

I wish that just once
I could see him again
as the memories of him
I wish I could
feel his presence,
feel the warmth
that radiates from his body
when it touches
Wishing and hoping,
every night at 11:11;
wishing and hoping
for something I know will
never happen.
I pray for his comfort,
for the tingling sensation that I get
from just being around him.
I yearn for him to touch me,
even just to brush my hair away;
yet in the back of mind,
I know it’s wistful thinking.
But despite the cloud of rejection
hovering over me,
I press on,
knowing all the while
he’ll never love me
like I love him.

Friday, July 25, 2008


What if we were manatees?
Swimming around the yellow-blue sea
And the world was right for us to just swim and just BE,
What if we were manatees?

What if we were manatees?
Grazing on underwater banana trees
With no worries or cares it’s just you and me,
Won’t you come and swim and just be we?

But life’s not that easy for us manatees,
Swimming around in the yellow-blue sea
There are aquatic bears and tigers that just won’t leave us be,
They won’t let us swim in the yellow-blue sea.

They keep us and danger and won’t leave us be,
We can’t even go to the underwater marquis,
Or lounge in a hammock beneath the banana tree.
They police the waters and won’t let us be.

What if the life of a manatee,
Was happy and blissful and all worry-free
Then we could just swim in the yellow- blue sea
And it could be just me and you for eternity.

What if the sea creatures could all agree?
The tigers and bears and the blue manatee?
And we could all frolic in the yellow- blue sea
And all live together in blissful harmony.

But alas it’s not that easy for the manatees
Swimming around in the yellow-blue sea
Because in this place we call life really nothing is free
And there are no places where we manatees can just BE.

What if we were just manatees?
And the world did not affect you and did not affect me
And the world was right for us to just swim and just BE,
Won’t you come and swim and just be we?

questions not to be answered

· Why can’t we say what is on our mind sometimes?
· Why is it so hard to tell someone how you really feel?
· Why is it so hard to trust someone?
· Why is it that other people can’t be trusted?
· Why do you give me a reason not to trust you?
· Why do we say things to hurt other people?
· Why must we put others down to make ourselves feel good?
· Why is it that we doubt other people?
· Why do we hold on to grudges?
· Why do we hate each other?
· Why do we judge others by how they look?
· Why can’t I be trusted to make my own decisions?
· Why do girls turn to guys for what they don’t have at home?
· Why is it that most fathers don’t give their teenage girls the attention that they need?
· Why do I have to listen to you?
· Why do most of us have to raise ourselves?
· Who do most people turn their backs on us?
· Why do I have to be what you want me to be?
· Why must we lie to cover up something we did?
· Why must we choose between two things we love?
· Why do we doubt ourselves?
· Why must we be insecure?
· Why is it so hard for us to tell the truth about who we really are?
· Why do we choose to do wrong?

the love of the bear

You are the sun the moon
And the stars to me.
But when you act the way you do
It gets to me
You want me to just drop everything and come running
You think that it is because I don’t want to but I can’t
Why can’t you understand that I can’t be what you want me to be?
Tired of you acting the way you do because
I’m not there for you all the time
What kind of love is this
Is the question I am asking.
Why do you make me feel this way,
Like I don’t care about you
Like I don’t want to be with you
Why do you doubt my love for you?
Why do you make me feel guilty for something that I didn’t do?
You make me want to cry
The things you say
The things you do
Drive me insaneI don’t know how much more of this
I can take
Sometimes when you pretend you don’t want me
I just want to leave you on the spot and end it once and for all
But there is something that keeps me staying here for some reason
maybe it’s because I have no choice but to stay
Is this something good or bad?
Do you expect me to not be mad?
Do you expect me to just be like ok you’ll get over it and soon everything will be ok again?
Do you think that I will always be here to put up with you?
Do you always expect me to welcome you back after all you did to me?
Why can’t you understand that I enjoy being with you?
The only one I love
I don’t know how much clearer I can make it
If you can’t see that I am and always will be here for you
I don’t think you deserve me.

James Menson

I first met James the day of my cousin’s college graduation. In case you’re wondering, during a college graduation they have long boring speeches, and then they call the name of each person in the graduating class. There are normally about seven hundred people. If you’ve never heard seven hundred people being called up to receive a diploma, then just so you know, it takes a while. The list goes in alphabetical order of the last name. My cousin’s name is Jae Ab. She was the first one to receive her diploma. I wasn’t too psyched to wait a few hours to congratulate my cousin.
Instead of waiting for all the other names to be called, my parents let me walk home so long as I promised to be back in an hour and a half. I wanted to finish putting up the new hammock for my bedroom. (I use a hammock as a bed for a few reasons: a) you don’t have to make your bed, b) it takes up a lot less space, c) it’s actually pretty comfortable.) My room was pretty small, but I thought it was awesome. I had shelves on the walls all over the room for my books. (I was a huge fan of fantasy and adventure books.) Some of the shelves were used for all my collections. I collect glass bottles, corks, golf balls I found on the beach, junk, and little figurines of army guys. The remaining wall space was covered in posters for the Red Sox, Harry Potter, and other posters with themes that interest me, such as Greek mythology. In one corner I had a huge bean bag chair with my laptop on it. In the opposite corner all my sports stuff was piled. I play soccer, lacrosse, hockey, and basketball. It sounds pretty busy, but I don’t take anything over the summer seriously; if I want to play a sport, I go out and fool around. I also only play two sports a season. It’s pretty busy, but not overwhelming. The rest of the free space is taken up by my survival gear. I love going on camping and hiking trips. I have a great supply of stuff. But back to the point, my room’s pretty crowded, and a hammock is much easier to have instead of an entire bed.
On my way home, I took my usual shortcut through the woods. The woods came out behind an orphanage, and once I reached the sidewalk in front of the orphanage, I simply had to walk a few blocks to my house. I normally tried different routes to get home through the woods each time I went, but today I used a route I had gone through for years. About a third of the way in, my head banged into something. I stopped thinking about the parachute-like material in my new hammock. From my position on the ground I couldn’t see what I had banged into. I reached upwards, not wanting to slam my head again. I made to grab a vine to pull myself up. Instead of the vine pulling away from the others easily, like I expected, it didn’t move. I pulled harder. Nothing. I stood up properly and looked at the bunch of vines. They were about five feet above the ground, firmly attached to a low tree branch. I looked closer. It seemed pretty unusual for a clump of vines to be in this square shape, now that I thought of it. Upon closer exploration I found a long rope disguised as a vine hanging from another tree. I saw at once that you could use the rope to swing onto the square of vines which was actually a platform. I also saw that if you didn’t know what they were there for, you’d never guess they were there. They were camouflaged by an expert. Deciding to see what was up there (because people don’t just randomly put a platform up in the middle of a forest); I grabbed the rope, backed up a few paces, ran, and swung up to the platform. It was surprisingly sturdy; very well made. Going up to the next branch was a well camouflaged rope ladder. I climbed up this easily, getting more and more impressed by the handiwork of whoever had built all this. At the top of the ladder there was another platform concealed by vines, and a rope. I could guess what I had to do. I looked around, and noticed another platform hidden by vines in the next tree over, about fifteen feet away. That was pretty far, so instead of leaping towards the tree, I leapt away from it so that I would swing past the place I had jumped from on my way back. After reaching the next landing I saw a rope to shinny up, and a last rope to swing from. By this time I was pretty high up. Each platform had been about ten feet higher than the last. I swung through a curtain of leaves, and gasped. Inside a huge circle of vines and leaves about thirty feet above the ground (very high) was a superb tree house. It had four rooms; a bedroom, kitchen, living room, and a workshop. At the end of my swing I landed on a platform jutting out of the open-air living room. I strode over to the workshop area and stopped by the door, watching the boy inside nail some pieces of wood together. It looked like he was building a chair. The kid was about fourteen with dark brown hair that hadn’t been cut in a while. He was wearing jeans and a t-shirt, both of which looked like he had been wearing them for a week. He looked up. His eyes were dark, a bluish gray. He scowled at me.
“How’d you find this place?” I told him about crashing into the platform. He scowled more darkly and muttered something about moving the platform higher.
“What is this place?” I asked after a while when it was clear that he wasn’t going to say anything else.
“Where I live,” he grunted. I was getting the message that he wasn’t the friendliest of sorts.
“Why do you live here?” I asked. “Don’t you have anywhere else to live?”
“Nowhere that’s a real option.” He kept working. I checked my watch. I had twenty minutes to get back to the graduation.
“I got to go. I might see you later,” I said.
“Fine. Just don’t tell anyone else that I’m here.” I left the tree house on the rope, noticing as I passed the tiny bedroom that he used a hammock as a bed too.
For the next week, I couldn’t help thinking a lot about the tree house, and the kid who seemed to live there. Why was he living there? Didn’t he have a proper home to go to? And how did that kid learn how to work wood so well? Everything he had built looked like professional carpentry.
The next opportunity I had to go in the woods was a few days later, when my mom was at her part time job as an architect. My dad was her partner, as the head of his carpentry company. They were on a job for some lady who was apparently obsessed with her pet hedgehogs. She wanted an entire building with all the latest hedgehog convenience technology. She obviously had too much money to spend. I didn’t really care that much at the moment though, because it meant my parents were out of the house. After waiting a few minutes to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything, I set off for the tree house.

At the house, the workshop was busy again, this time it looked like the kid was making a table.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.” It came out as a grunt.
“So what’s your name? I’m Jack.”
“So how come you’re living here?” No reply. “Don’t you have any parents? Did you run away?”
“Look. I’m not talking about myself to you. If you want to come here every so often, I can’t stop you, seeing as you know about this place. Anybody would want to come, because it is pretty cool. I understand that.” I heard a faint strain of pride in his voice, even though he was trying to sound offhand. “You can come, but you’ll help out, and you must not tell anybody I live here. That’s really important. Understand?” He fixed me with such a piercing gaze that I nodded right away, without pausing to think about what he was saying. “Good. You can start making a shelf for the other room. You know how to work tools?”
“Sure.” James showed me which tools were, and where the supplies were. I got to work. After working for two hours in silence, I showed him the finished shelf which he examined with professional interest. He pronounced it passable, (because compared to his work, mine was pretty pathetic) and left the room to put it up. I followed him. His room was amazing. He had a bunk bed, but the bottom was a desk covered in booklets on math, science, history, and writing. He had a collection of sports equipment and loads of other amazing stuff. Pocketknives, figurines, books, (including the Harry Potter collection) and tons of great knick-knacks. The hammock I had seen before was by the window next to my new shelf which had all James’ books and figurines on it. It was a great reading nook. The room was brilliant. James finished putting up the shelf and turned around to see me. “I’ll give you this: you are definitely persistent. Not many people would go after me this far to find out my background. I might tell you at some point, but not now, not today. I don’t trust you yet. Come back every so often, and if I decide I can trust you, I might tell you.” I recognized the dismissal. As I left I heard him playing a tune on his harmonica. James was exceptional. He was teaching himself everything.
Over the next few months I kept going to the house. Soon he already had projects ready for me. I learned so much about woodworking that I started projects of my own. His tree house was finished; he had added as many comforts to it that he could think of: screened windows, pictures and writing pieces in frames, everything you could want. We started painting, but after a while James and I were hanging around more than working. He taught me how to play the harmonica, to juggle, unicycle, shooting (we used nerf guns), and sword fighting. James however was careful not to say a word about his past. I didn’t ask, but as the months went by, I couldn’t help wondering more and more. One day four months after that first meeting, I decided to ask. We were working with our wooden swords and shields, but all of a sudden I put down my sword. I blocked his stab with my shield. “Wait. I wanted to ask, have you decided if you can trust me yet?” James sighed. “I guess. I could have earlier, but I just don’t want to talk about my past. I’m having too much fun right now. But I guess I owe that to you. You’ve stuck with me this long.” We put away the swords, and climbed up into our hammocks (I had long since put up my old hammock across from James’.) He lay back and closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts. James took a deep breath, and started.

“My parents are part of the CIA. They can’t tell anyone, so they tell the orphanage that they don’t have enough money to take care of me. They come to visit me every so often at the orphanage. Now, the orphanage is a pretty nice place. In fact, as orphanages go, it’s pretty great. My parents are great too. I understand that I can’t live with them if they’re going on missions all the time. I mean, it would be possible to look after me, but they’d have to make a lot of sacrifices. At first they did, but when I was seven, they told me everything. I actually had the idea to go to an orphanage. They wouldn’t hear of it. It took a year to gently persuade them without making them think that I didn’t want to be with them. I did, but they really wanted me to be a spy agent like them. I just want to be a master carpenter. They wouldn’t hear of it. I told them this when they told me what they wanted me to be; a spy agent. They By the time I was seven, I was learning karate and tai kwon do, the piano, Spanish, French, fencing and sword fighting, and acrobatics with my private tutor. I had academic classes in the morning, and then learned everything else. From three to six I would play with the other kids in the neighborhood so I could practice social skills. I was kept in perfect shape. It wasn’t a bad life, but it was controlled. I had no say in my future. I hated that. That’s the real reason I went to the orphanage.”
“The orphanage, however, had everyone go to the public school (where I was moved up a grade) we could have two after school activities a week, as long as they were part of the school program. The other nights we did chores and hung out. It wasn’t bad. One day a week I could go to the woodshop club after school. The teacher said I was a natural. My room in the orphanage had brilliant furniture. I brought most of it here and made the rest. But the orphanage, like my parents wanted to decide your future for you. It had a reputation for producing lawyers and politicians, and wanted to keep that reputation. We received basic training once a week. In high school you had a choice of three law schools that had connections with the orphanage. You had no choice. By the time I was twelve I had my plan fully formed. I’d run away to the forest and live in a tree house I’d make. I’d survive by running a private business for carpentry, and by taking out the college savings account that the orphanage had started. This plan had loads of problems. How would I get tools and material? How would I get the code for the bank account? How would I contact my customers?”
“I solved the problem of the bank account by escaping at dinner to enter the head of the orphanage’s quarters. I stole my entire folder. I also decided to run a mail order service for things like shelves, tables, and chairs. That way, when I delivered the objects I could pretend to be the delivery boy and no one would know that I was actually making the objects.”
“The main problem was getting materials. I didn’t have enough money to get enough supplies to start with, even if I then made enough money to keep going. I turned over all the options in my head. I would have to steal. Now, this just about ruined my plan. I was immediately reminded of everything that could happen to me if I was caught. I could go to juvie, until I was old enough to lead a life in jail. I could also be fined. If I did manage to escape jail, I would be closely watched for the rest of my life. This would be on my permanent record. And even if I did succeed in not getting caught, I’d have to live knowing I stole. Well, for weeks after that I seriously considered just becoming a lawyer or spy agent. I’d give up on my dream as a carpenter. I’d put back the bank account number and discontinue my plans. If you hadn’t done what you did, I would be in school right now.”
At this point I was a bit lost. I hadn’t done anything to help James out before he moved to the woods. I had never even met him. James seemed to sense my confusion.
“Remember about a year ago, just after you won that national soccer tournament with your team?” I did. “Well, they interviewed the whole team because it was such a big deal. When the reporters asked you if you wanted to be a pro soccer player when you grew up, you said that it was a possibility, although you didn’t know what you wanted to be.”
“After that you said that once you did figure out what you wanted to be, you’d go after it for the rest of your life. That really impacted me. I thought about what you had said for weeks. You didn’t know what you wanted to be, but I did. I wanted to be a carpenter. I didn’t have the rest of my life, because once I was an adult, I would already be a lawyer or spy. It would be harder to start over. I had my chance now. I shouldn’t let anything stand in my way. Even if it came to stealing? I didn’t know what to do. But after taking layer training for a few more weeks, I made up my mind. I considered everything, including the fact that I had already stolen my account number to get the money. I was already a thief. Why not continue. So, even though I knew how thick I was to be doing this, I came up with a plan to steal wood, nails, screws, hammer, saws, screwdrivers, and anything else I might need.”

impact of tiny things/butterfly effect

I am continually struck by the fact that every tiny movement, every small decision impacts the world around us. Say, for instance, that you are standing in a breeze and you happen to catch a leaf that is falling from a nearby tree. You take this leaf home with you. This leaf, then, never goes to a pile of leaves, never gets swept up and turned into compost, and doesn’t contribute to the growth of a new tree. But say that you did let it go, and all of those things happened. The leaf would never be pressed between the pages of a heavy Webster’s dictionary, never leave a trace of its DNA on the pages, and never contribute to the result of a murder case. Who knows what would happen if things went another way? No one is ever told what would have happened, as Aslan the Lion says in [one of the Narnia books- LWW?]. It is only up to our imaginations to wonder.
When a stone is dropped into the water, ripples spread across the pond, interrupting the otherwise still surface, setting in motion a chain of events that eventually affects everything in the pond.

More thoughts... Questions?


Light as a feather you’re
Way up high
You twist and you float
Farther than yesterday
Touch the sky
And who knows if I
Being who I am
Will see you nigh
For lovers and dreamers
Weren’t destined to see
Eye to eye
And still on go I
Hoping and flying
To see you nigh

These are lyrics I'm writing for Maria's very beautiful song on piano... That's why sometimes the rhyme scheme seems a little awkward.


Ooh jealousy, alas, sets in
Knife through my heart- no, sewing pin
For pins are not so easy to see
You’ll catch someone jealous, but it won’t be me.
You’ll never see it, you’ll never know,
But I’m jealous of she who steals the show.
Polite fictions disguise my pride
Which tangles up and hides inside.
I’m proud of my insightful tact
I’ve gotten really good, in fact.
And though I loathe my childish ways
This is something that just stays
Until it swallows you, splits you in two
Unless you stop and start anew.

The Lady On the Black Leather Couch

She sits there waiting

Waiting for something good to happen

But, Nothing good ever happens

She sits there staring glumly into space

Her children try to comfort her but she refuses their hugs

Her mind is filled of things to do but she can’t do them

The pain is too much for her to bear

She struggles

She struggles

The pain is too much for her to bear

Her mind is filled of things to do but she can’t do them

Her children try to comfort her but she refuses their hugs

She sits there staring glumly into space

She sits there waiting for something good to happen

Her patience has ended

She gives up waiting


I suppose that the word realize literally translates as, “To bring into one’s own perception of actuality.” So then do I realize a character when I write about them or read about them? If I make something in the reality of my own private brain, I have then realized it. Just as an architect realizes her vision for a grand building by making a concrete version of her internal reality, so too do I present my inner reality to the world through ink and paper.

This was just a random tendril of my thoughts that I am sharing with you. Any ideas on how to develop this would be great.

In our time

My face is lined
From wincing at your entering
Your presence wakens me
From the sweet melody of my dreams
I want to rest
And sleep away tomorrow’s yesterday
But today is what you live for
And I just can’t get my way
You don’t know
That I’d sooner wait for tomorrow
I can see
That you’re not so good at waiting
You won’t guess
That I still think of the yesterdays
As all the dreamers do,
In our time
My time is limited I know
I’ll ponder it in my silky silver dreams away from you.
And I know it can’t get better
But anything seems an improvement
On nothing else at all
You don’t know
That I’d sooner wait for tomorrow
I can see
That you’re not so good at waiting
You won’t guess
That I still think of the yesterdays
As all the dreamers do,
In our time

Jigsaw vs. Lip gloss

I have the sneaking suspicion that nobody understands my cerebral jigsaw. I guess it’s difficult to look at its pieces, worn down and bent in some places, without the singular derision of one who has outgrown such things. But I’d rather have my jigsaw than your nasty pile of lip gloss, oozing gushy lies. It’s just not right to be always characterized by the pile of paint you sludge on your face each morning. It makes your beautiful face into a mask- it even has a visible seam, just below your jaw line. Disgusting. I’d much rather sit here and solve my cerebral jigsaw, because goodness knows you won’t.

On the Definition of Power

Today I feel small.
Not as in weak, or unpowerful,
No! not at all-
I feel small and light.
I have the springy energy
Of a tiny gymnast.
I could jump ten feet in the air
I could leap tall buildings in a single bound
I could fly if I wanted to
I could conquer the world.
I am full of energy
I am strong:
Today I am wearing leggings.
With them, I become as a cat:
Flexible, agile, lithe, dexterous
Aware of every muscle, every sinew,
Of every nail and bone
And the cool grace of my movements.
With no unnecessary fabric,
I am aerodynamic
With my hair finally cut short,
I am free again
And everyone, and everything, and everywhere
Is motion.
Start the countdown.
Prepare for take-off.

Swallowed by the guilt (chapter 2)

Chapter Two

The office of Dr. Andrew Clark was, at first glance, like any other waiting room, with bland, unadorned furniture, a muted color choice, and outdated magazines littering the glass coffee table. Sit in this lackluster furniture, however, and you would take back everything you said. Dr. Clark found it necessary to please those in his waiting room with buttery leather massage chairs, understandable, since he was a very accomplished psychologist and probably experienced many fussy, problematical patients. I would have visited the office daily to sit in that machine for 10 minutes.
“Greta?” The nurse called my name from the desk. “Dr. Clark will see you now.”
I inhaled slowly, letting the air fill my trembling body. One step at a time, I made it to the wooden door, heavy and scarred, turned the knob, and experienced the shock of my life.
“Hello Greta,” Dr. Clark exclaimed. The man who I would be confessing my most confidential feelings to was the man who had been loitering suspiciously around the coffee shop. I couldn’t place why I was so surprised. I could have been judging him too harshly when I had first seen him. That was obviously the case, because here he was, a renowned psychologist of New England.
“Hi, Dr. Clark,” I managed. Letting my emotions pass over me, I relaxed the slightest bit as I sat down in the chair.
Surrounding me were gleaming plaques, medals, cups, and certificates of achievement. I managed to peek at his ring finger, which was bear naked. I scanned the room for family photos, cousins, nieces and nephews, girlfriends, parents, siblings, but was unsuccessful. It seemed like my talent of reading people had been correct once again. Although an outstanding man in his field, Dr. Clark was matching up perfectly to my assumptions. I decided to put my qualms on the backburner and focus on why I was here.
“So, Greta, tell me. Why is it that you are here?”
I tried to speak, but attempting to say the words felt like talking with drying glue on the roof of my mouth.
“Well, I’ve bee-” I began, but stalled and thought about the right way to say this.
“Greta, I’ve dealt with countless other patients who boasted stories far worse than yours. There is no reason to feel uncomfortable. Go ahead, I won’t judge you.”
I pondered this man for a moment. He was seemingly oblivious to everything around him, even though he was a psychologist. I was doing my best to appear uncomfortable, but he was either unfazed or unaware of my vibes. I obviously didn’t want to speak, but I was wasting an hour of my life, as well as $200 of my father’s money, so I really had no choice.
“Visions,” I mumbled to myself.
“Ah, visions. Greta, let me assure you that this is very common. I have a handful of patients who experience visions. Tell me, when do these images occur for you?”
I thought for a moment. I really hadn’t taken the time to consider this, but concluded that they came to me in my sleep.
“Dr. Clark, I really just need to stop these,” I said. I didn’t want to be coming here every week, fixing something that seemed so simple.
“Well in order to do that, we need to figure out why you are having them,” he stated matter-of-factly. “Would you please, if it’s alright with you, go into detail about your last one?”
I inhaled. “My last vision, well, I mean they’re all involving my sister, Caitlin.”
He jotted some notes down. “Continue, please.”
“Caitlin is always in some dark place. The first one started with me watching her in a van, being driven away. I can’t make noises. I can’t stop them. I’m always helpless,” I whispered. Until now, I didn’t realize how emotionally draining these had been for me.
“That’s very common. Often, that’s what your brain will do while experiencing a nightmare. They are caused by a traumatic incident, or even just a stressful period of your life,” Dr. Clark said.
I nodded while absorbing this information. “There was more than one,” I said softly.
“Go on, tell me. Tell me all of them,” he encouraged, and I did.


“Caitlin, I won’t be home until later tonight,” my dad told her. “Greta’s going to be out, so I have Mr. Murdoch coming to watch you.”
“Dad, I’m twelve years old. Do you honestly think I still need a babysitter?”
I didn’t understand it really. I had been left alone since I became a double-digit. Ten years old and I could be by myself. My dad was much stricter with Caitlin then he had been with me.
“Just for tonight, because you can’t cook yourself dinner. He’ll be gone by midnight,” my dad promised.
He grabbed his jacket and was gone. I sighed heavily and went to find Caitlin. Alone in her room, with the laptop balanced on her knees, she typed vigorously.
“You won’t be needing any company tonight, since you’ve got your “video chat” and stuff,” I told her. “Have fun with Murdoch,” I added. She was in for a night of entertainment. Mr. Murdoch was a complete bore, always sitting, staring vacantly into the distance, yet there was always a peculiar sense about him.
“Where are you going?” She asked.
She didn’t need to know. I wasn’t like her, with friends surrounding me, party invitations being thrown at me daily. I was happy with myself and my close group. I walked out the door, and the brisk October wind slapped my face. Approaching the house was Mr. Murdoch. He paused briefly, locked eyes with me, and muttered an insincere “hello.” I watched him weave through the bushes, open the gate, and briskly run up the steps of my house. Something about that man seemed uncanny. Manners were unknown to him, and although he didn’t seem sinister, I chose not to trust him.
The town was usually not very lively, with not much to do, so I walked towards the Watch Hill Public Library. The building was a beautiful construction, finished with giant stones that shimmered when the sunlight struck them. Aged white wooden carvings garnished the top of the building where it met the roof. It looked like a typical historical New England structure, complete with a plaque, certifying that it had been built before 1800. Inside, the hushed sound was comforting. You could hear the muffled tone of librarians discussing books with groups, and the clatter of fingers on the keyboards, where college students sat, frantically trying to finish their papers. I made my way to the most enjoyable spot in the whole place: a giant bay window consumed much of the mahogany wall, showcasing the pond which occupied the back yard. There were rows of leather recliners, and I selected one of my favorites off the shelf, but my mind was too cluttered to concentrate. I curled up in the chair, and unaware of my surroundings, drifted slowly to sleep.


You are screaming my name continuously. I had seen this before. You were ripped from your bed, those gruff hands so familiar. I had seen them before, but where? The van is back, and again, you are thrust inside, speeding into the dark night, leaving me with the echo of your screams and a million unanswered questions.

I woke up trembling, leaving the book, the chair, the serenity, and ran home as fast as I could.


The house was silent, but not the peaceful quiet of sleep. No, this was so much more than that. There was a stillness to the atmosphere, with only the hum of the refrigerator noticeable. I called my sister’s name softly, but no response. The lights had all been shut off, but when I moved the switch, the darkness remained. I panicked, rummaging for a flashlight in the drawer. The clock read 10:09 p.m., and my dad was due home in 21 minutes. The door to Caitlin’s room groaned as I pushed it open.
“Caitlin,” I whispered hoarsely.
Her bed was made, the corners of her sheets tucked in snuggly, her nightlight gleaming in the corner. The flashlight slid out of my sweaty palm and met the carpeted floor with a soft thud. I dialed her phone, and when I heard the monotone voice of the operator, informing me that the number had been disconnected, my emotions could no longer be contained. Downstairs, the familiar tone of my father’s voice echoed up the stairs. The lights turned on and exposed Caitlin’s immaculate bedroom, as well as a note that had gone unnoticed.
“She’s gone. It’s too late,” had been scrawled with Sharpie on a piece of lined paper. I took the paper and sank to my knees. My dad appeared in the door frame, breathless.
“What, what is going on? WHERE IS SHE?” He demanded.
Uncontrollable sobs drowned my face, teardrops moistening the rug beneath me.
“YOU DID THIS! YOU TOOK HER, YOU AND YOUR DREAMS. THIS WAS ALL YOU!” My dad’s face was twisted as he sat on the edge of her bed. I stood up and handed him the note.
“You sick child, how could you do this to your own sister?” He muttered.
I was too exhausted to even protest. The look on his face had said it all. I dragged myself out of the room, the guilt overwhelming.

Island of Thoughts

I can smell the sea salt breeze rising into my lungs burning my nose. The water pushes itself toward land, harshly brushing against the rocks. The surrounding sand, damp and heavy, fills the cracks between my toes as I walk along the shore. The sun in my view shines on the sea like it is its pride and joy. The contrasting bright green plants are like a newfound light to my eyes. The jagged rocks along the shore greet the waves as they come and go. The air has a muggy feeling, the mist of the sea makes it even muggier. The clouds around the island shade it ever so lightly from the sun’s harsh rays. Yet the leaves of the trees shade the animals.

Edited by Gina. Co-edited by Maria

Is there anything I should change about this piece I don't like it so...... I don't know what to do with it this was from the day we had to write about the pictures/scenes plz comment and tell me what u think

St. Peter

There are no churches in heaven; no shrines to Jesus, no bibles, no tables set with tribute to our heavenly father. So in a way, Father Eugene felt a little out of place when he ascended to have his fate determined at the pearly gates. Nonetheless, he strode forward, pompous and confident, to have his eternal fate determined when his name was called.
“Well, here’s where this all pays off,” he sighed. “I can finally share in the never- ending overflowing bounty that is the Lord.”
“Next!” called St. Peter. His voice sounded weary as if he had had a long day at the office. “Name!” he ordered.
“Father Eugene Wallace” the Priest replied, puffing out his chest as if this statement of his name was all he needed for eternal glory.
“Well, Father “,he said sarcastically, “What makes you think that a place is reserved for you in the house of the lord our God?”
“Well, I was faithful to God for all my 67 years and preached every Sunday at Assumption Church.”
“Not impressed” droned Peter. “Any other credentials that you think might save you?”
The priest was taken aback. Not only did he think that this would get him in hands, down but he thought it would make him an important heavenly figure as well.
“Well… I am completely free of sin!” he replied.
“Can it, Baldy!” St. Peter cut him off, “We’ll see about that.” He pulled a large, dusty book off the podium. “You see this, Wally? Can I call you Wally, by the way?”
“Ummm… I guess so…”
“Great! So anyway Wally, this little book of ours keeps track of all the sins that you have done in your life, and as you can see, it’s pretty hefty.” He took out a pen. “And by the looks of things looks like you lied to me right there so… I got to put that one down, too.” He turned to the last page and scribbled a note.
“Now wait just a minute! What are you accusing me of doing! Do you mean that I stayed abstinent for my entire life for nothing?”
“Not that you could have gotten any anyway.” Peter chuckled under his breath.
Eugene’s face was turning a beautiful shade of magenta. “No need to get mad now, big guy,.” Peter comforted him. “Let’s go over your sins now, shall we? Ok, let’s start first with the big seven. Let’s see…” He thumbed through the large book, stopping on a page labeled Avarice.
“Oh! Tut tut Eugene, looks like you’ve been siphoning funds from the collection plate! Greed does not do well my friend,” he said, as if speaking to a two year old caught in a wrongdoing. “Wow, there are a good number of sins in this category that could be fatal. But let’s move on, before I get too worked up.”
He flipped to the next page, entitled Pride.
“Well, we can see here just by the way that you looked at the people in the line out there that you are a pretty pompous person.”
Eugene looked dumbstruck. When he finally opened his mouth to argue Peter glared at him with a look that said without words, “Shut up if you know what’s good for you.”
He turned the page to a page so filled with ink that it looked as if it was merely a black piece of paper. The header was barely visible: Lust.
“Eugene, Eugene, Eugene! Look at this page! I can hardly even read this page! Shame on you! All these impure thoughts… What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I mean, hey, I mean…” he stammered.
“That’s what I thought,” said Peter “You have nothing to say for yourself. And you call yourself a priest!” He shook his head and turned to the next page, entitled Sloth. At this point he just looked disgusted.
“Well, well, well, having the altar boys do all the work for us are we?”
“Just the distribution of communion!”
“Another lie Wally, you’re really digging yourself into a ditch here. It says right here that sometimes you even have them do the homilies for you! That’s pretty slothful right there.”
Eugene’s face turned from its previous magenta to a terrific shade of violet. Peter slammed the book and threw it into the large garbage bin sitting next to him.
“Well, I think it’s safe to say that we’ve seen enough here,” he stated bluntly. “Too bad, Wally; I’m sorry, but now you’ll have to burn in the fires of hell right alongside Lucifer for the rest of eternity. Next!”
He pressed a button and a large pit opened up under the priest’s feet. And as he stood there with a dumbstruck look on his face it seemed almost comical; he seemed to be standing in midair for a few seconds before finally falling.
“Later, Eugene”

Jezebel's Jingle

Who are you anyway, the smugness supreme
Your eyes and your brain filled with raspberry cream
Your lips and your tongue are piles of dung
Your face is a place of amazing disgrace.

Who did this to you? What have you become?
A vapid dope under society’s thumb?
You haven’t a clue what has happened to you
And you’ll never be clever enough to endeavor

To find out the answers before you are sunk
To the level of simple incontinent drunk.
If you’re understanding and not as demanding
You’ll find that your kind has its stars unaligned.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Tell Me Again

So you once said
that there is truth in everything.
I have found no truth in anything
and you have done me wrong.

Someone once said
that a true friendship
is more important than love itself.
You tell me love should triumph.

So I once said
that I could never
come between you two.
But it has happened,
So all I ask
is if my knowledge is worth
anything at all.

"the pen is mighter than the sword"

The double-edged pen
Cutting and slashing to carve its way
Forging its path
Leaving in its wake the marks on those who beheld it
Quivering people’s hearts and freezing the breath on their tongues
Inspiring tribute to it and honor to it
The stains of its work clear and stark on the white plains
The ink stained sword

The ink stained sword
The stains of its work, clear and stark on the White Plains,
Inspiring tribute to it and honor to it
Quivering people’s hearts and freezing the breath on their tongues
Leaving in its wake the marks on those who beheld it
Forging its path
Cutting and slashing to carve its way
The double-edged pen

True Love

Michael loomed over Nina, his wife of two months; the light from the K-mart bought lamp pushing his shadow through the room. The darkness made the blood trickling over his wedding band from his knuckles look almost black. Her pale form was sprawled in the corner, trying futilely to curl up in the smallest shape, to melt into the wall.
He slowly walked over to her trembling form, gently pulled aside her mass of tangled hair and whispered, “Get up.”
She stayed silent, trying not even to breathe loudly and pushed herself to her knees. Michael punched her across the face, breaking her nose and throwing her head back against the wall. She lay still; her pale moon face looking up through her veil of blood, through the mask of hatred her husband wore, through the cracks in the plaster, through the sky.
“Why do you make me do this Nina?" Smack. "I love you so much.”


The woman looked harried and fearful as I watched her. Obviously not from this country, with caramel skin and raven black hair, she stood there silently as doctors tried to revive her husband. I knew that she was hiding, not a legal citizen, and the fear of the hospital finding out in order to save her husband’s life was more than she could handle. Her body stiffened as the hospital staff approached her, one of them clutching a folder with documents stuffed inside. She slowly backed into a nearby room, but they caught her just before she slipped into the darkness. I overhead them as they confronted her, but not for the reasons she had expected, as hot tears started to stain her face when they mouthed, “We’re so sorry.”

author's note: this is the six sentence short story. if anyone can think of suggestions for a more appropriate title, that would be great :)

Float off Me (revised)

The warmth of the candle sustains my love for him but I’m still cold
The chills running up and down my spine disturb me and I need more warmth
The dark room provides me with nothing but loneliness, silence and cold.
The candle flickers violently ready to burn out like the hardship we went through to get where we are
I watch the only light in the room, a candle, flicker as if it’s my last breath to breathe
I inhale for the last time the sweet smell of the candle as if it’s the last time I can smell his sweet savory scent, soon to be nothing
My candle has melted entirely along with my burning love for him leaving no warmth, no light
I feel like a withering rose
My petals float off me one at a time more painful each time the next one floats off of me
He loves me…………. He loves me not………….

I already posted this before plz comment and tell me if it flows or if I have any mistakes

The Fat and Bad Mechanic

“Ring, ring!” Goes the phone at the house of a fat mechanic named Bob. He picks it up and it was Sandy his wife saying she needs her car fixed. Bob was very tired and bored, so he took the challenge. She dropped off the car at 4:00 and said she will be back 6:00. He finished the car in like thirty minutes, but he didn’t want to call his wife and tell her he was done because she would make him take a shower and didn’t want to. So he just stayed in the basement next to a car that he fixed. He was bored as heck so he started to dance but he was to fat. So he couldn’t dance for long. Then he got bored again. Still out of breath from dancing he started to sing. Then the neighbors heard him singing really badly. So they threw a shoe at him. So he stopped. Then he was bored again and he had one more hour to go so he can go back to sleep. Then he thought that he can go get some food but he was to fat to go up the stairs and get the food. To get the food he will have to go up the stairs and he was to fat to go up the stairs. So he couldn’t. It was 5:30 two hours of complete boredom and was still bored. Then his wife came home a little early. She said that he should take a shower. Then he started to yell and say “”I don’t want to-“He hesitated and then said “that’s a great idea honey.” Then he wasn’t bored anymore he wasn’t bored anymore he was taking a shower that he didn’t want to do but at least he wasn’t bored anymore because it’s fun to learn how to take a shower at the age thirty. Something had interrupted his first shower it was his wife screaming out Bob’s name saying that her car broke down again. The reason why it broke down was because Bob didn’t fix the problem, he fixed the radio to his favorite radio station.

6 sentence story

“Hey man can I have a dollar?” The hobo said.
John Smith, a successful businessman, wiped the sweat from his brow as he walked hurriedly between Broadway and Sixth Street, ignoring the beggar altogether. The hot summer sun beat down and glinted off his shiny top hat, and he removed his dinner jacket, slinging it over his shoulder and revealing the plaid button down underneath. Suddenly, a few things happened all at once: a strong gust of wind blew his hat off, a silver SUV drove by, spraying muddy water all over him, and an apathetic passerby with large work boots stepped on and scuffed his immaculate black shoes, rendering them unrecognizable. In all the confusion, his dinner jacket was swiped by a running man. And as he sat down in all his misery, a muddy, defeated man, someone passing by said:
“Hey man want a dollar?”

E24- updated but still a work in progress.

He had to get the box in safely. It was the only reason he didn’t just lie there as his life trickled away steadily through his carotid arteries. Enervated fingers scrabbled around the top, finally hearing the click he was so desperately waiting for. He opened a door and shoved his precious object inside, only just managing to close the door before he collapsed.

E24. There it was: a small, tarnished brass nameplate on the door. Her hand, trembling a bit with something halfway between anticipation and dread, inserted the slightly bent iron key into the keyhole and turned the knob. The door, old and wooden, let out a groan as it opened. She winced at the sound echoing down the silent hallway, glanced around uneasily, then turned back. She entered the room, putting the key back on the chain around her neck, and shut the door. That was her first mistake.
She did not expect to find anyone in the room; but then again, nothing could really be assumed at a time like this, in this abandoned hotel out in the middle of nowhere. She was more interested in finding out where the box was, the one mentioned in the will of Lawrence Prave. But first, she would need to find some form of illumination: the dirty window allowed little light into the small room.
Fumbling around the near wall, her groping fingers finally discovered the light switch. A ratty floor lamp in the far corner of the room illuminated, casting weak light on the scene. What little she could see with the light and her poor vision was unsurprising: red drapes, burgundy carpeting, striped wallpaper with the unfortunate color combination of ochre and chartreuse. Everything in the room held the unmistakable air of cheapness.
“I would have thought that Lawrence would have chosen to die in a classier location than this,” she muttered to herself. It was a frequent bad habit, one which Lawrence had often criticized. She could hear his voice in her head now: Anesidora, keep that up and the next thing you know you’ll be put on schizophrenia meds. She kind of missed him in spite of everything she was being put through here.
“Now, where would he have left it?” she murmured as she began her search. There were only two rooms including the bathroom; it shouldn’t be overly difficult to find it. She rifled through shelves in a tiny desk she had overlooked before, only to find a Gideon’s Bible and some rumpled clothing. A quick check of the bed, drapes, and even a few mysterious carpet lumps revealed nothing other than the fact that Lawrence’s organizational skills had severely declined since she had last seen him alive. Somewhat frustrated, she entered the bathroom and was immediately greeted by a faint but rather grisly trail of red-brown leading to the cabinet under the sink. She cursed her blindness and opened the doors of the cupboard. How had she forgotten that Lawrence had been found dead in the bathroom? After all, it had only been a week.
And there, in the back of the cabinet, was a metal box a few inches tall and roughly the length and width of a piece of paper. It was not very heavy, but it had some weight to it. She went to remove the lid when she saw the lock square in the center of the top. The lock looked quite familiar to her. “Could it work?”
She shoved her inherited key into the lock, all pretenses of patience gone. After all, who was going to see her, in the bathroom of a ghost-town hotel room? The key turned; the lock clicked; she was in.

The weekly maid entered with broom and duster, carefully avoiding the piles of things on the floor. She trooped into the bathroom, knowing it would be the easiest place to start, and almost tripped over the client, collapsed facedown and bleeding heavily.
“Sir?” She squinted at her list of hotel residents, then came upon the name of the man in E24. “Mr. Prave? Are you all right?”
She shook his shoulder lightly. No response.
“Mr. Prave? Should I get a doctor? Mr. Prave!” She shook harder. The body rolled onto its back and she saw its glassy eyes.
The maid screamed, tripping over herself to run out of the place. She hurtled down the stairs and ran to the front desk. She could not get out of that room fast enough.
Breathlessly, she shrieked at the manager behind the desk, “There’s a man in E24, and I’m pretty sure he’s dead!”

Anesidora plunged through the liquescent death and emerged mostly deceased but still quite alert. She had had a feeling it might feel like this—cool, heavy, deep—but was not aware to what extent it would feel this way. All matter that existed inside these metal walls was in a state somewhere in the gray area between the final breath and complete death. It was a mostly-dead metropolis. Gray buildings sat drunkenly, all mostly dead as well.
She wouldn’t find Lawrence here in the City of the Betwixt. He was completely dead. But she had to get some answers from somebody, and fast. It would not do to linger here and take on any of the strange characteristics of the citizens.
Anesidora hurried through the gloomy streets. She passed people, always alone and with dour expressions, dressed in achromatic cloaks and shoes that shuffled with every step. No one ever made eye contact or said a word to anyone else. Nothing was black, white, or colorful; everything was gray on the bleak landscape.

When Will it All End

I no longer believe that
The world will ever be at peace.
With all this talk of war affecting lives,
How can anyone be happy?
They take our little ‘fellas’,
And turn them into men.
They send them out to war,
And then they are babies again.
What do we do?
How do we do it?
Will this plan work out?
Oh geez, we blew it!
Duck, Duck!
Fire, Fire!
Shoot! Take Over!
Then another life expires.
Will we continue to go on like this?
All the children cry,
“Mommy, when’s Daddy coming back?”
How’s she to tell them Daddy died.

Quiet Child

The little boy sat in the living room, quiet and in solitude, waiting patiently for his mother to return home from work. He waited for many hours, but made sure not to, “screw around,” or, “be stupid,” his mother’s words verbatim. Sitting with his hands resting on his lap, his tiny feet strapped into his Velcro shoes crossed and dangling from the leather sofa, he realized that his mother was running late. He remained seated and worry-free until the telephone wailed in the kitchen. The little boy’s mother told the boy not to pick up the phone, but the caller ID read, ‘Wilson, John,’ the boy’s father, and he was excited to speak to him for the first time in months. But after a few moments the little boy’s big brown eyes glazed over in fear and confusion as his father gave him the disturbing news.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

On the Brink SCENE 4

Katie stood at the doorway, clearly unnoticeable to her boss, Ralph Dibbler. He rustled through paper after paper, grunting to himself and biting his ballpoint pen harder. Katie cleared her throat.
“Excuse me?”
“Katie! Thanks a bunch for coming down on such short notice. We need to discuss, well… your career,” He paused, glancing at her troubled face from the corner of his eye. “Obviously, such a reaction from our viewers the other day cannot be dropped so… so effortlessly. I hate to do this, but if our company is in jeopardy than changes must be made.”
With an awkward gulp, Katie managed, “What… kind of changes, sir?”
“I’m going to have to hire a new reporter for the show,” Ralph announced, still refusing to make eye contact with his employee. Katie stifled a gasp. He continued, “Unless… you can acquire a captivating story in one day. I will judge your discovery and decide whether you’re fired or not. I’m sorry, but this is the only condition I am offering. Now, please, get to work before I change my mind.”
Katie stood up from her chair, absentminded as she strolled towards the door. The ideas that used to come naturally were nowhere in sight, lingering just out of reach. She was stumped with reporter’s block, and there was nothing------
She gasped, jumping at the concept that a notion had popped into her head. Claire had mentioned something unbelievable about a time machine… and keeping it a secret. Katie was sure Claire wouldn’t mind sharing if she knew her friend’s job was in jeopardy. But just to be safe, she decided not to tell Claire of her plan.

Lost (Chapter 5)

I looked out the window I had looked out of so many times before in my life. My vision was obscured by those red drapes, which were now faded, looking like a memory more than reality. I brushed them back, and sure enough, the trucks were pulling into the driveway. As if on cue, I heard the loud voices I had heard earlier in the woods. I could hear them checking all the rooms below me, their thudding of boots growing closer and closer. They soon reached my room and after a moment’s hesitation, a boot came through the door, smashing it into pieces.
“Freeze!” A voice I recognized said. “Put your hands above your head!”
It was Jack. He was with the men who wanted to kill me. I obeyed him, getting over the surprise of seeing him here. I figured he might give me a fair chance to explain myself.
“Why can’t I find them? Tell me why I can’t find them.” I pleaded with him as more agents crowded around the door.
Jack smiled at me, almost a sad smile.
“You’ve been a hard man to find.”
“I want you to tell me why I can’t find them.” I whispered, almost to myself, more than him.
“There are some things in this world that need to stay lost, things that don’t need answering.”
My brain didn’t want to hear this answer, shrieking in protest. I realized Jack was moving towards me. Would he actually kill me? I couldn’t risk it. I had to act. I knew if Jack didn’t the others surely would. I dropped my hands slowly, buying time.
“Don’t move!” Jack shouted.
I counted two agents at the door. I breathed more heavily now, anticipation making me shudder. Before I made my move, I stretched my hand out to my head, my chest and both my shoulders, asking God for forgiveness for what I was about to do.
“Put your hands on your head! Do it!”
In spite of myself, I smiled as I pulled out the concealed gun. I was going to make it out of here alive. I kept telling myself this as I watched myself punch Jack’s face and grabbing him as a hostage. It seemed like it happened in slow-motion to me, like I almost wasn’t believing what I was doing. I pulled Jack back from the agents.
“I’ll shoot!” I warned them as I held out the gun level to Jack’s head.
The agents raised their guns, probably not even caring what happened to Jack as long as I was dead. I fired, hating the sound the gun made, but hating even more the way I saw both the agents crumple to the ground. I dropped the unconscious Jack to the ground. Now I had to get out of here.

Ripple Effect

He ran down the hill to the pond, the only place he could think of where he could cool down without hurting anyone.
“Stupid people, I hate them,” he muttered angrily, spewing swear words as he stumbled over the loose gravel that cluttered the steep incline. Not paying particular attention to where he was going, the boy fell. His momentum carried him over and over, acquiring him new scrapes and bruises.
He broke free of the fall with a determined vengeance, forcing his body off the ground and stomping over to the edge of the pond. Its cool, unwavering surface seemed to mock the inner torment that was taking over his ability to act rationally. Spying a kitten-sized rock, he seized it eagerly and put all his strength into hurling as far out into the water as he could, to vainly attempt to break its serenity.
The thrown rock hurtled far out over the water, silently arcing through the sky to poke a clean hole in the still surface. At once, the water was thrown into motion. The boy watched from the bank with a grim satisfaction. He had the manner of a man watching the execution of one who had personally wronged him.
Unbeknownst to him, the water wasn’t the only thing in motion. Something beneath the surface was hit and bleeding. For a moment, it struggled, trying to rise above. Then, defeated, it sunk down, down down…
On the shore, the boy felt a sense of release. He breathed slowly through his nose and out through his mouth, calming his frayed nerves with the exercise he had been taught. To his surprise, it actually worked. Rage subsided, he trudged back up the hill.
In the lake, the water was turning an ugly brown. The sinking creature had caused a disturbance in the water with the spasmodic thrashing of its limbs stirring up the sediments of the silty pond floor. All of a sudden, a silver gleam interrupted the murky water, the indication of a shiny object lodged in the mud. Apparently, something valuable had been thrown into the pond long ago. Further motion dislodged it and floated it to the surface.
The object floated slowly across the pond for several hours until reaching the stream that fed out of it. Spinning slightly in the more turbulent waters, the object was carried along for miles as the stream widened out into a full-fledged river.
An old fisherman farther up the stream suddenly felt a good-sized tug on one of his nets. Excited at a big catch after a very unlucky day, he struggled briefly with the net, wincing, and became immediately puzzled. With his right hand he gingerly dug a slightly dulling silver disc from the depths of his net.
“What the heck is this?” he wondered aloud, calling his buddy over. “Got some words on it, but I can’t make ‘em out with these old eyes anymore.”
The younger man squinted at the letters carved in the metal, scratching at the tarnish. “Somethin’ ‘bout a cat or somethin’, I dunno.”
“No, you idiot, it says Catherine. Catherine Gr- Gra-”
“Catherine Gr-Gra? Speak clearly, boy!”
“Give me a minute, old man! It says Graham, Catherine Graham.”
“So this is the bracelet old Cathy Graham lost all those years ago, the one her sweetheart gave to her.”
“She dropped it in the river? “
“No, you fool, of course not! It’s custom-made, and it sure cost the man a pretty penny.”
“Then how did it end up in our hands, with a dead otter in tow?”
The old fisherman shrugged, turning the bracelet over in his hands. “They say Cathy went berserk after she found out he died in the war, leavin’ her with two little kids of her own an’ all.

The Halls

It’s fun with lots of noise and work to be done.
People in the halls
Having conversations about the next class with
Girls playing around
While the next class is around the corner

While the next class is around the corner
Girls playing around,
Having conversations about the next class with
People in the halls.
It’s fun with lots of noise and work to be done

Wrestling Match

Success is the only thing that drives me
I can see my sweat
Trying to cool my body
Pounding down on the mat
I fell,
Trying to get back up

Trying to get back up,
I fell,
Pounding down on the mat
Trying to cool my body
I can see my sweat
Success is the only thing that drives me

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Untitled mirror poem

The night man walks along
In the darkness, thickly black,
Almost heavy as guilt.
The bottle swings from his hand,
Gets caught glinting in the street lamps
His footsteps stumble on the concrete sidewalk,
The cracks choking the feeble green-gray weeds
Trying to slither through.
Hat slung low and collar pulled high
Against the bitter winter wind,
The night man walks on.

The night man walks on
Against the bitter wind.
Hat slung low and collar pulled high,
Trying to slither through
The cracks; Choking the feeble green-gray weeds,
His footsteps stumble on. The concrete sidewalk
Gets caught glinting in the street lamps.
The bottle swings from his hand,
Almost heavy as guilt
In the darkness, thickly black.The night man walks on.

From: Bystander To: Killer

Your story has been told over and over again,
Re-written through the woven lies of green-eyed goblins
Who lurk through darkness on deserted main streets, closely trailing your slumped shadow,
Their scaly hands lifted towards you in doom as their pupils roll back in their skulls,

Their presence to you is simply, “I don’t care”,
Let them watch as you stagger into the night,
Picking off your prey one by one,
Like nails on a chalkboard, they shriek their final prayer at your cheerful grin,
And just like that you put them to sleep, forever,

The city’s bright lights will shine through your soul to illuminate the truth,
As could we, who watch silently from the ditches of eroded gutters,
Turning our heads this way and that way, watching in neutrality,
We know what you’ve been up to,
We know where you are going,

But we too have our fears,
We wouldn’t dare follow you to the bridge,
You walk with your head down, garbage bag tossed over your shoulder,
And after some time your silhouette evaporates into the surrounding forest,
And we know now you have called it a night,

As for the goblins?
They marvel and scurry home to tell their loved-ones what they have witnessed,
Some even panic and dial the local police,
This must make you chuckle, perhaps even put a smile on your face,
Because we both know very well you’ll be back tomorrow night.


The stars shine above.

The glimmering lights

impossible to see

in the blazing sunlight.

The night sky peace,

with their vast numbers,

they dazzle me

I could forever be watching them.

I could forever be watching them.

They dazzle me,

with their vast numbers,

the night sky peace.

In the blazing sunlight,

it's impossible to see

the glimmering lights.

The stars shine above.

Note to Self

It’s hard to realize that
Your responsibilities, they change with the coming of age; but
Expected of you are
The big, great things in the world that seem
Daunting or impossible-
Within you lays the potential to do something amazing, however.

Within you lays the potential to do something amazing. However
Daunting or impossible,
The big, great things in the world that seem
Expected of you are
Your responsibilities. They change with the coming of age; but
It’s hard to realize that.

Finding my killer-(??) Chapter 4

Chapter 4
"Oh. Shoot they found me," I said, "That was weird to say."
Mike laughed. "Come on we should go and make sure they're ok." Mike and I ran over to where my body was and we found Jordan and Rachel on the ground examining my body. I was horrified at the sight of them. They were crying hysterically and they kept saying, "No, no. Come on Ana, you can't be dead."
Finally, the police came and they took a look at the body. It took them about forty-five minutes to finally calm down Jordan and Rachel. They wouldn't believe I was dead. I felt horrible for having them find my body. Mike was right, they were traumatized. I couldn't believe I had just had my two best friends find my dead body. I was the worst friend in the world. "It had to be done don't blame yourself." Mike said putting his hand gently on her shoulder.
"What do you mean? You were right. I shouldn't have made them find me. I ruined their lives."
"No you didn't they are just really sad that you died. Trust me this is a good thing. I watched the police make records of what happened to you. I can make a copy of it and we can start seeing what happened. We can stop by the coroner's office and the police station everyday to get the new leads."
I nodded. I was now going to become a detective. Detective Ana finding her murderer by day and being a total lost soul during the night. A few days went by and Mike and I had gotten nowhere on the search for my murderer. "Man, they make this look so easy on the T.V." Mike laughed. We were looking through the police records and seeing what the police had found. "Face it there's nothing here. It would be just so easy if we could go back in time and watch who killed me. I mean it is my past. I just don't understand this." I said totally confused that we couldn't figure out this murder any faster than a snail could move.
"It's just going to take some time. Patience is key young grasshopper." Mike said and smiled.
I laughed at his imitation of a Chinese kung-fu trainer; I was amazed that he had a sense of humor. “So what happened to you? I mean you’re dead too right?” Mike just kept looking through the folders. I thought he hadn’t heard me. I opened my mouth to ask him again. Then he decided to talk.
“Remorse.” It was the only word out of his mouth. I didn’t understand. What did remorse have to do with him dying? Did someone feel remorse for him and kill him too? Did he have so much remorse he just couldn’t take and just died one day? Mike sensed my confusion. “I did something that I wasn’t proud of doing. I was tricked into doing it and when the deed was done I realized what I had done and I felt so much remorse I just couldn’t live with the pain. So one night my parents weren’t home. I took some pills from the medicine cabinet and overdosed.”
“Oh, well you don’t have to tell me what you did if you don’t want to. It’s ok.”
“I don’t want to say. It’s really painful.”
“Can I just ask when you died?”
“I died yesterday at two in the morning.”
“Wow. I’m sorry you killed yourself. I mean I thought it was bad to be murdered, but to kill yourself? That just tops the list.”
“Yea, well since we know who killed me let’s try to figure out who killed you. Is there anyone who you can think of who would even have the slightest grudge against you?”
I thought about this for a minute. Was there anyone who hated me so much they would love to have me dead? There was one person who didn’t like me. I wonder if she would have killed me. She wouldn’t have stuck the knife in my back. Heck, no. She’s too good for that.
“There is one person I can think of.”
“Who is it?” Mike asked in a nervous tone. I didn’t notice he sounded nervous at first, it just sort of passed my mind that he was nervous.
“Jenifer Wilson.” Mike’s face got an expression of total horror on it. I noticed that right away. “What do you know her?” I asked.
Mike’s face was still horror struck just then we heard a loud voice. It screamed “ANSWER HER QUESTION!” I screamed and jumped so high in the air. Mike just took a breath and sighed. “What…,” I started, “was that?!”
[A.N-i am still looking for title ideas. I have gotten some and am considering, but I still would like more ideas.]

Lost (Chapter 4)

I sat in a Starbuck’s, trying to decide what to do next. I needed to stay hidden in case Jack was still looking for me, but at the same time, I wanted to look up that name. Gregory Horrison. It seemed so familiar, but I just couldn’t place it. I felt something in my pocket. I slowly pulled out the pamphlet from the orphanage and stared at it, dumbstruck. At the top it said “Gregory Horrison’s Institute for Parentally Challenged Boys”. My mind was reeling, yet blank. How had I forgotten the one place I hated the most in my life? I had no idea where he was, but my father owned the Institute.

I had made up my mind. I found myself travelling the road I had taken so long ago with Jack. I was going back to the place that would have been my last choice to visit again. I didn’t dare take a cab, in fear that Jack would follow me somehow. I was hiking along the woods to the side of the road. Suddenly, I heard many tires rolling on the pavement. I hid and peered out. Enormous trucks bounced up and down on the bumpy surface. As they went past, I could make out the word SWAT on the side. Somehow I got the feeling they were looking for me. There were at least four trucks. After they passed, I waited, then slowly eased myself out of hiding.

I liked the woods; they gave me something I had not felt in the city, a sense of peace. I enjoyed all the beauty around me, the way the sun shone through the branches of the dead trees to cast intricate shadows upon the ground, the scent of the fresh pine crushed beneath my feet. This would not last. Something pierced the branch next to me. I whipped around as another bullet launched itself past me, punching itself in to the tree behind me. I took off. I could hear shouts behind me along with the growling of dogs. They were hunting me! Several more bullets missed me by centimeters. I couldn’t hide, the dogs would find me for sure, the only thing I could do was to just needed to keep running. I should have thanked the bullets that were appearing all around me, they gave me the adrenaline I needed to run faster than I ever had. Soon, I saw a cliff appear in the distance. This was my chance. I launched myself off of it and into the undergrowth.
“Where did he go?” a voice demanded angrily.
“No idea… The dogs aren’t picking up anything. Scan the area, shoot on sight, those were our orders, make sure they get completed.”
Luck had found me. I had landed in a plant that must have masked my scent from the dogs. I didn’t have time to feel glad. I quickly climbed back up, checking if I was alone. The men had gone off farther into the woods. I had to get out. I used the trees for cover and soon made my way back to the road and stopped. The Institute loomed overhead. Just the sight made me remember my all of my childhood in a heartbeat, it was an incredible experience. I had to get inside and find out more about my father. I swore as I noticed they had posted a guard at the front entrance. It was the only entrance I knew of. I had no choice. I edged around the back of the building, looking out and waiting for the guard to turn his back. I picked up a fairly good-sized branch on the ground. The guard was distracted by something on the road and I took my chance, clubbing him as hard as I could on the back of his head. He went down without a sound. I swiftly transferred his gun to my pocket, and with a moment’s hesitation, his grenade on his belt as well. I heard noises on the road. Those trucks were pulling up alongside the road. That was what the man had been distracted by! I had nowhere to run but inside. I rushed through the door and up the stairs like I had countless times before in my past. The Institute was empty. From the looks of it, it had closed down long ago. It didn’t make sense to me. Why had the posted fliers for my return? The place had an eerie feel to it, as though I was being watched. I finally found the door to my room at the top of the tower. I slammed the door once I was inside. What was I going to do? They were going to kill me right away, without even a chance to explain myself. I needed to know why though. Over everything else, I wanted to know why I couldn’t find my parents. Why were they trying to stop me? Suddenly, that question became more important than my life to me. I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I didn’t have these answers. And so I waited, not knowing what for.


Why can’t I write down the melodies of my dreams
Which quickly fade upon waking?
The warm images
Of the dreamworld-
I’m not meant to join them.

I’m not meant to join Them
Of the dreamworld-
The warm images
Which quickly fade upon waking.
Why can’t I write down the melodies of my dreams?


There we stood,
Having to part after so many years together.
All of the memories flodding back to me.
"Best friends forever," we always said,
I wonder what will happen in years to come,
Will you visit?
Standing there looking at you,
The sun shinning bright,
How could a gray day be so light?
We hug and say good-bye
A best friend, now gone.

A best friend now gone,
We hug and say good-bye.
How could a gray day be so light,
The sun shinning bright.
Standing there looking at you,
Will you visit?
I wonder what will happen in year to come.
"best friends forever," we always said,
All the memories flodding back to me.
Having to part after so many years together,
There we stood.

We hide...................

We hide in the noise, the silence shone on us like a spotlight stripping us of our shadows.
- Cynthia Grant - Uncle Vampire
Many people hide from their mistakes they cover them up and try to run away. The truth is you can’t run away from anything even killing yourself you can’t escape anything. You just kill yourself causing everyone else more problems. Sometimes I have thought about leaving…. Yes that kind of leaving. I’m glad I never attempted it because now I realize that everything and everyone has problems no one knows exactly what’s going to happen to at least grab life by the reigns and steer your life the way you want it to be and have days filled with sunshine, candy, and unicorns.


I should have asked
About the mystery.
I knew nothing
That could help;
No clues.

No clues
That could help;
I knew nothing
About the mystery.
I should have asked.


Am I doomed to this fate?
Bullets whizzing past my body,
Any of them can take my life,
I look back to see men firing at me,
I know I don’t have long now

I know I don’t have long now,
I look back to see men firing at me,
Any of them can take my life,
Bullets whizzing past my body,
Am I doomed to this fate?

Monday, July 21, 2008


Time: a fleeting glimpse of what has past us by, yet endless:
Each passing day a grain of sand receding to the ocean upon shell studded beach.
And I, no more than a speck of dust in the measuring of the universe,
See time as though it were there; yet
How to measure the present: an interesting question.
By the lives it has touched?
The hand of a clock move too slowly to truly capture the present:
Me, I am writing this now, but soon now will be then,
Like an hourglass, the sands of now soon sift into the past.
Is there a present?
Are you affected by it, or has what effected you turned into the past before your eyes?
Future: What will I be like in the future?
When do I find out?
Will I ever find out?
It seems as if we are always one pace behind our own footsteps…
Will my life be significant in the long run?
Or will I just live up to what we all are:
An organism trapped in this fantasy we call life?
It seems as if we’re all here; yet
Infinity: Is it real?
Where do we go when our time here is over?
Does time have meaning?
Or do we all just recede back to nothingness and cease to be…
Now: is there such a thing, or is it just a word created to make up for all the things that we have missed
And all the loved ones we have lost?
Are we real? Is anything real?
Will we ever find out who we truly are, or our purpose here?
Before we fade away, deep into the recesses of Time...

The Stump

A stolid stump lays silent there,
Its withered trunk stands barren, bare.
An empty shell, it slumps, defeated:
Beauty and power all depleted.

It mournfully awaits the day
When machines and men will pave the way
For roads, across the hills and plains:
Streets that cannot grow, laugh, or feel the rain.
That will never know a mother's soft caress,
Just continuing on in their gloriousness.

Its rings reminisce the happy days
When children would climb its branches to play.
Their laughter resounding all around,
Making a home out of the earth, roots, and soft warm ground.

Yet now they toil so busily,
And travel only on the highways, roads and streets.
Could they have been the ones who spent
Their time to destroy a place so opulent?

Or were they the ones that turned away,
And without knowing it, turned the tree into the stump it is today?
And created this world of imperfection,
Just to add one more car to their collection.

The lesson of the stump rings clear and true:
It is not the world to blame; it is me and you,
It is what you are and what you do,
That creates the world you see around you.

The Sweet Escape

The silt of all the years gone by;
Fuses with the tears and crimson blood
As it is carried far away
To that far off place behind the horizon where the hopes and dreams of the ages still have meaning…

And the tales of the toils of men,
Their efforts and strife,
Melt away in silent sorrow
Lost in years and years of history’s gathering gloom.

Whose eyes are these?
Who stare upon a world of desolation and the trudging of weary feet upon the sand?
Detached from human flesh, taking in a world of troubles without the faintest bit of truth
Yet hoping for what the future in the world beyond may bring.

The salty spray on skin;
A vast ocean, encompassing the comings and goings of a thousand lives.
Ethereal wholeness cleanses the body of its worldly ties
And beckoning hands as well as voices echo with a longing for well deserved rest.

Cool hands and the aroma of freshly cut lavender and thyme
Emanate from the depths of the sea
And the water itself rises a chorus of welcoming

Yet here I lay
With trembling hands
To be welcomed in:
A world without hatred or care.

A shining light comes from the core of the water and also my heart
And I prepare to take the plunge
As I hold my breath, or as my breath holds me,
I hear a small boy call out in the darkness.

I shake my head and open my eyes on this place I call home
To see its imperfection almost makes me want to go back.
But I still have my dues to pay
Perhaps there will come again a day
When I can gaze once again upon Silver shores.

Blogger Templates » Blog Archive » Marco

Blogger Templates » Blog Archive » Marco

Hidden by Pain

We hide deep below,
Just below the ground.
In fear of the fiends,
the people we once knew.

We are unsure
of what might come.
Of who we can trust,
If traitors lurk among us.

The stiff boards below us
and the cold walls closing in
remind us that there will be an end.
There there is too little air
in this small room,
and we may not be free again.

Still we hide,
cowering in the darkness.
Afraid of all who surround us.
It is now that our closest friends
become strangers.

In the darkness,
We pray for freedom,
for strength and mobility.
And above all,
the courage to overcome
the pain.


All is frigid and quiescent that surrounds me. The numbing cold induces a deep sleep upon me, from which I can feel the world around me shifting, yet I cannot move or see. Yet my children are my eyes, and they tell me of what they have seen. The world is changing, they speak, all is not well...

My body's coat of cold, my body's substance is deteriorating gradually... I see what my children meant. There is danger, something is certainly awry upon this Earth. The greedy and misguided men have learned to forge her beauty into power... yet I do not fear. At the peak of my wisdom, I can sympathize with and understand these beings, foolish though they may seem... They believe in doing what is best for their kind, in caring for them, as I watch over my children from my peak... though they are incognizant of the danger they are causing to themselves and to my children's existence. And though my children weep in sorrow and fear for their death and perhaps mine... I believe what was meant to occur will do so, and destiny will determine our fate. The world has survived countless ages of ice, ages of fire, and other periods of strife... and I believe it will continue to subsist, even if we ourselves do not. Mankind will thrive anew from the ashes of death, learning from the mistakes of their ancestors.

Despite the chaos below, all is peaceful atop my peak... for I am certain that if we do not survive, our memory will be carried upon the winds' everlasting breath.

Pee Pants

Uh oh.
There is a dangerously dark splotch-
Darker than the shade of denim
My mommy chose
To buy my jeans in.
It is slowly meandering
With no concern for my embarrassment
Wider and wider
In the crotch of my pants
Near the seam.
Please don’t look at me…
“What’s that?”
Oh. Crud.
“I didn’t pee my pants, I swear!
I spilled the milk-
Chocolate milk-
Meant for my mouth but the carton,
It slipped.
I spilled my milk on my pants but-
I didn’t pee my pants I swear!”
Nevertheless, to my utter dismay
They all converged upon me-
Pointing and laughing, screaming
With mirth at someone else’s
I really didn’t pee my pants,
It was my milk-
My chocolate milk-
That spilled from its carton and caused
The Splotch.
But the rest of them-
Pointing out another’s mistake
To hide their own,
They circled and chanted, christening me
So that through the rest of
Pre-school, grade school, high school
I was forever known by one name only,
Not Mary or Lucy or Katherine or Sue,
Only one name would fit:
Pee Pants.

Past the End

Past that building, I used to stop
On those cold winter days.
To remind myself of what I lost,
and what I had to gain.

Although time was taken
from the covered rooftops,
we all felt the sorrow,

It all ended
when the winter came.
The past was erased,
and nothing was the same.

I Am The Life

I am every facet
I am the crumbling sand
I am the tiniest pebble teetering at my summit
I am the age-old iron core
Withstanding howling wind and howling humans
I am the entire sheer, snow covered face
I am the rock veins that feed
Into the deep roots of my stubborn trees
I am the foot-imprinted dirt on my surface
Now softened by fallen green-to-brown needles
And blankets of snow
Melting with the setting ball of fire
That reflects my own color of choice
And makes it deeper, russet
I am the blue you see in the dead of night
And old blood dried rusty.
I am this oversized boulder
I am the ravine below
I feel the constant flow of life
Trickle over my body through time
Desperate souls leaping out of life
Into my rocky caress
Or climbing my impossible face
To have the strength for one more mundane day.
I feel my trees being carved into with love
Years later they are wrenched out of me
Roots dangling and trailing
Like thousands of tiny fingers
Reaching back to me in longing.
I feel the torrential rains and floods
Splashes of paint and tears and blood and sweat
I feel the dusty settle of dirt falling
From the manufactured crevices of thousands of boots
From distant rocks and mountains
Saying hello.
I feel the hearts about to burst
With joy and wonder
Looking out at my kingdom
Feeling for answers
And looking back down the length of my body
At what a single piece of flesh can accomplish
My age old, crumbling yet strong for eons self.
My craggy and ragged, yet smoothed out tired
By feet and water and wind
Sparsely dressed by trees and snow and clouds
Painted with blood orange and burgundy
And the smoky red of dream-fueled flames
And shadows of sunset blue self.
Against my immovable self.
I am the journey.
I am the passion and the quest
I am pure life and time and patience
I am the beauty and the flaws
I am the sage, the wise old one
I am the memory of life.
I am the mountain.

Ever Hungry Child

Obese child cupping handfuls of dirt
Slave only to the moon
Reigns otherwise supreme, massive, calm
Appeased and bloated with sacrificed corpses
Those that fell to the will of the water
In fighting for fish they inevitably
Succumb to the greedy child
That is constantly sucking, screaming, scratching at the shore
Licking its fingers for the last crumb of life left there
Be it desperate sailor
Or lopsided castle of sand
It shoves its ever hungry fingers into the corners to steal all.
I left my heart along the shore
Selfish beast you ripped him away
Plucked him out of our crumbling castle
One day with a wave of your hand
Now you wash back and forth through the hole made in me
Insult to injury
Whipping the frayed edges with your howling wind
Burning my wound with your careless salt
Merging with my own love now spilt
Your salt, my blood, our tears
Pour down my face back into your hands
Till the beast bleeds scarlet salt
Just another poor soul sacrificed
And it is calmed once again.

My Friends

The blood colored-liquid that looks like the deep purple
That paints the skin of the plums in the fruit bowl
When it’s seen through the semi-transparent
Dark green bottles shaped like romance
My red friend hides in plain sight in the alcove next to the sink.

The yellow rose sister dances delicate and pale
Fair of complexion with a song sweet and light
Intending only upon a brief decorous courtship
Filling the frosted, swan-necked bottle
My white friend rests in the bottom shelf of the fridge.

The tall, imperial, masculine bottles that caress
The water that burns like hot coals
Whose labels whisper foreign names that taste
Like olives and salt and ice
My immediate friends reign as kings in the basement closet under the stairs.

The dark, short and stout bottles
Hold the amber that embodies the gentlemen
With their armchairs and cigars and philosophy
Ice cubes clinking in the smoke filled room
My favorite friends sit on the shelf below, quiet and brooding and welcoming.

The Poland Spring bottles, empty of their original guests
Now carry the taint, the stink of the liquid
That all at once repulses and yet pulls one in
Like an old and loving friend
Burning familiar and sweet on the way down.

These friends lie hidden in the trunks of high school cars
The hands of party-goers
The back of the senior parking lot
The picnic tables behind the Town Center
The bottom drawer of my mind.

Thousands of bottles still live on in my head
Though I’ve banned them from my fingers and tongue
Will they stay safely caged in my skull?
Or slide back into the real world to drown me
My memories pushing their way out like bile from my throat.

I panic at the thought of a return
To seeing only the bottoms of bottles
But I am quickly calmed by strong warm arms
And lips on mine- my saving grace
Against my vilely loving, devotedly stubborn friends.

Spell Check

Cary Lee Bates and Paul Reuben Day must have fancied themselves real-life Zorros.

Their despised invention slashes a red or green zigzag under every perceived error, which is generally something misconstrued as an error but is actually perfectly grammatical.

It annoys the living perdition out of me! My goodness!

Yes, I am totally freaking aware that that previous line was a fragment! And, thank you very much, I am not going to consider revising it! So there!

Sometimes there are so many red scars across the computer screen (mainly for unfamiliar proper nouns, such as surnames) that I feel like Harry Potter.

My inner annoying nitpicker (sometimes referred to as Ian) is telling me that was a lame sentence. (Shut up, Ian!)

In any case, I think a death threat would be imprudent, as they are taken very seriously by society at large in current times. Suffice it to say that I highly dislike these two people, Messrs. Bates and Day (at least, I’m assuming Mr. Bates is a man, a la Cary Grant) simply because their most famous and overused invention does not do a proper job of catching true grammatical errors.

True, I make few errors that would be caught by such a computer program.

But I still want to scream in its smug little dead-wrong computer chip face.

Her Last Time Up

Pink gleams!
People scream
We all cheer and clap
To a crazy extreme.

She stands there
Looking in an invisible mirror
We stand up giving her a standing ovation
That she so deserves after 2 years
Even before she spoke her first words.

The bright pink dress
The blonde curly hair
Laura Bell Bundy
The Elle Woods we adore.

Lost (Chapter 3)

Jack stepped on the brakes as we arrived at the tall building.
“I’ll wait for you out here.” He told me as I got out.
“Thanks Jack.” I replied over my shoulder as I slammed through the heavy mahogany doors and into an over-cooled waiting room.
I rushed over to the receptionist immediately.
“I talked to you over the phone.” I stated to her blank face.
“Oh yeah, did you bring the picture?”
“Right here.” I handed it over.
“Right, this may take a few seconds.” She placed the picture under a strange machine. The machine ran a red light over the picture. The words “SCANNING” soon appeared on her computer screen. She pushed a button that said “similar matches” and a loading bar popped up at the bottom. It started at a steady pace. It was too slow, for I could feel my anticipation tearing me apart from the inside out. A painful minute later, the bar was finished. Green letters that read “COMPLETE” replaced the bar. The screen turned black and white, then, the computer shut down. I stood there for a good ten seconds.
“What the hell just happened?” I demanded.
“I have no idea…” the receptionist looked dumbfounded. “I’ve never seen this before. Only the government has access to shut down my computer besides me.”
“Can you try again?” I asked desperately.
“It’s not turning on.” She told me, her finger jabbing at the power button. “Why don’t you leave your number and I’ll call you when this is working?”
Sighing, I jotted down the church’s number.
“Sorry about this.”
I was already out the door. Jack was waiting outside his car.
“How’d it go?” was his cheerful reply.
“I don’t know. The computer just turned off when it was done scanning. Then it wouldn’t turn back on.”
I got in the car, not willing to talk anymore. I felt I had been robbed. Jack got in beside me.
“Cheer up mate.” He said. “When the computer turns black and white, it just a normal problem, like every other computer.”
“I don’t remember saying what happened with the screen.” I asked, suddenly suspicious.
“Oh, well, ah, lucky guess, after all that sounded like the problem” Came his reply.
He was refusing to look at me now, and I knew that somehow he had caused the computer to turn off. For some reason, Jack was trying to stop me.

I was still trying to get over what happened the next day. The anger was still inside my body, not wanting to leave. Every time I saw Jack, I saw a threat, a hidden danger. I knew the only way to ever fell normal again was to complete this scanning process, but my mind was refusing to wait that long. I had called back that morning and the woman had said the computer was now running. I had this one chance to find my parents and no one was going to take it away from me.

I didn’t know how to drive. I would normally just ask Jack to take me. I soon flagged down a cab as I had seen others do countless times.
“I need to go to this address.” I told the man, handing him the brochure.
“Right away sir.”
I remembered my conversation with Jack right before I left.
“Jack, I’ve decided to stop looking for them.” I had lied.
“Anthony, I don’t think you could have made a smarter decision.” He said, looking straight into my eyes.
I remember his look, almost relieved for some reason. The car pulled to a stop.
“We’re here sir.”
I paid the cab driver and went inside those tall mahogany doors once more.
The receptionist looked up.
“Oh, you again?” she replied in a dreary tone.
“I want to try again.”
And so we went through the same steps. The bar had just finished and “COMPLETE” came up when Jack burst through the doors.
“Anthony, no! Don’t do it!”
I swiftly looked back down at the screen and saw an older version of me, then I realized it was someone who looked so much like me, he could have been my…
“What is his name?!” I demanded, I saw Jack running towards me from the corner of my eye.
“Gregory Horrison.” The name sounded familiar somehow, like from an old dream. Jack was getting closer. I smashed through a door that led out of the room. I was outside. I started sprinting down the sidewalk, sun blaring in my face. I heard the door slam open a couple yards behind me.
“Anthony, stop!”
It pained me to run from him, he who had taken me this far in my life, but I knew he wanted to stop me from reaching my goal, and I couldn’t allow that. I stopped running after at least half an hour. I stood in the middle of New York, hands on knees, panting for breath, sweating underneath the intense sun, adrenaline pumping throughout my body, and I couldn’t care one bit, because now I knew my father’s name.