Creative Writing Final

1. List/discuss several of the different pieces of writing you’ve done this quarter, including posts, comments, creative pieces, journals, in-class writings, and things you’ve written on your own.
   We've done a lot of memorable writing this year, and everyone has written something they can and should be proud of. A lot of my work isn't the most serious, like "Photo POACH" or "Clown Chronicles: Cool, Charlie's Calling" but there's not a whole lot I didn't enjoy writing at least a little bit. One of my favorites is the second thing I ever posted to the blog, "The Pocket Watch." It's a short story about a young man named Michael who meets a mysterious stranger who calls himself Alagor. Michael discovers that Alagor can travel through time and is forced to question everything he thought he knew when he learns he might be able to travel through time as well. I really enjoyed writing it and still wholeheartedly suggest that people read that piece when they ask what they should read. I also enjoy "Stars" which is the last piece of writing I posted to the blog. It's about a little boy who wants to touch the stars, and is bitter over the loss of things and people he loves. He has a revelation about the truth of love and life, which is brought to him through the stars, wind, snow, and even the moon. Another one of my favorites is "Lily's Pond" which is a very short piece describing a beautiful, picturesque pond that's haunted by a lovely child who died there. Finally, I enjoyed writing "An Ode to Life" which is another very short piece that depicts a hunter singing to the wind as he hunts two beautiful wild grouse grazing in a field. These aren't the only pieces that I enjoyed writing, as I liked "The Dancers" and "The Tale of Lord Marion Belesky", among many others. Overall, a lot of good, solid, descriptive writing with true meaning came out of this class. Below is an excerpt from "The Pocket Watch" along with a comment from a reader.
   
   "Michael fell heavily to the grey, damp cobblestones, scarcely believing his memories. The stranger, Alagor, had simply melted into the night. He had been there, then he was not. Michael closed his eyes, seeking some iota of logic in this sudden maelstrom of confusion. I am Michael, I am Michael. Over and over he thought these words, until his breathing returned to normal. There is a logical explanation for all of this. I probably never saw it at all. I fell asleep while walking. It’s stress-related. Food poisoning. Anything but men appearing out of thin air. Slowly Michael collected himself, rising onto his feet. Some tiny, irrational piece of him was proud that he only required the assistance of the rough-grained brick walls to the right of him once in order to stand. Michael committed to his original course of action: the tavern, for a few drinks. Again the sound of his newly made boots echoed around him, except this time his gaze was more furtive, and no shadow lay unobserved. Every darkened alcove was carefully analyzed and filed away, before his wary eyes flicked to the next nearest possible danger. Eventually he began to hear the soft laughter and conversation of a great number of men, and saw the strong, steady yellow light coming from foggy window panes and a slightly ajar door. A green sign with the words The Three Lucky Men came into view, swinging as if of its own accord."
   
   
   "You have a real gift for narration, Zach, both with the rich, sensory details you use to set the scene on the street and in the tavern as well as your use of dialogue to drive the story after Alagor and Michael meet and try to make sense of their previous encounter. I liked this description: "His attention was quietly focused on his own thoughts, his steps naturally avoiding the darkest parts of his environment. He looked up, peering at a street sign far ahead to gauge his location, reassuring himself that his navigational instincts were, as always, unerringly correct." And I also liked this detail: "Some tiny, irrational piece of him was proud that he only required the assistance of the rough-grained brick walls to the right of him once in order to stand." This certainly is a strong foundation for a longer story--a series really. When you work with time travel there are just so many possibilities for plot and location and historical references and personal struggle. Go for it! And remember all of us little people when your books are made into multiple blockbuster films." -Mrs. Fraser.
   
   This is the piece "Lily's Pond":
   "It was an enchanted place, Lily’s pond. The secret grove was brimming with lively sounds and vibrant colors, all spinning in a mesmerizing dance of pure, unforgiving beauty. Every soft, nature-scented breeze, delicate flower, and unique, green-tinged leaf spoke of life. The crystal waters of the pond lapped gently against the supple grass reinforcing the shore, and sunlight sparkled across rippling waves. Any stranger would gasp at their gorgeous surroundings, and find themselves lost for hours among its magical properties. But the memories behind those surreal colors dampen my once deep love for Lily’s pond. When walking alongside the untainted waters of the pond, I can only think of the little girl who breathed sweet innocence and was the picture of childlike perfection that took the pond and called it her own. The young child who spent hours inside her hidden place, guarding its secrets with a fervor only children can have, falling hopelessly in love with the animals and the nature. So many times I looked outside to watch her run among the trees, chasing her creatures and tumbling down grassy inclines. I lost count of the times I wandered through to find her sleeping, nestled in the warm embrace of a tree, or curled on the grass. But one memory stands well above the rest, of watching the gentle wind push my little girl, and the ancient trees trip her, and the liquid blue waters steal her away from me. One moment replays itself over and over, because I wasn’t fast enough. That enchanted place is Lily’s pond, because she will always live there, and the pond will always have her."
2. Name/discuss a couple of pieces you’ve read this quarter, including other classmates’ work and/or reading you’ve done in or out of class.

   

   
   I've done a lot of reading this year, particularly new material. I made a vow to not reread any books, and so far I've been true to that. My favorite series I read this year was the Pathfinder Series by Orson Scott Card. It was a brilliantly written series about a group of extraordinary humans with amazing genetic gifts to alter time in many different ways. It's so thought out, the characters feel real and the world is so in-depth. It's up there with some of the best books I've ever read, and I highly suggest giving them a read. I've also read a lot of good work from classmates, particularly Meghan Zengel and Taylor Denton. Both of them are extremely creative and talented, and I'm glad I got the opportunity to read some the fantastic things that they've written.
3. Write about setting up your blog and what you have gotten from that experience.  How did you come up with the name for your blog?  Who do you think read it or who would you want to read it?  Will you continue to use it on your own in the future?  What kinds of things will you post?
   Setting up my blog was fun. I've gone through two different designs. The first one was darker and more complex, but then I went for a more simplistic, lighter design as I wanted it to be easier to read my writing. I think some of my classmates read it, and I know some of my family did. I really don't care who reads anything on my blog, and anyone is welcome to. I might continue to use it in the future, although I'm not certain if I will yet.
4. Write about journal-ing.  What kinds of things are in your journal?  Who would you want to read it?  Will you continue to journal?  What will you write about?
   My journal is kind of chaotic. There's no clear answer to "What kind of things are in your journal?". I have a lot of small assignments that we did in class, and a lot of little rough drafts, most of which never became anything. In a few places in there I have some thoughts I wrote down to preserve them. I don't know if anyone could actually get anything out of my journal, if they could even read my handwriting. I don't think I'll journal how we did in Creative Writing, but I'll certainly continue to write and take notes.
5. Type an entry directly from your journal that you consider notable.  It could be a paragraph or a page or so.  You don’t have to explain it, but you could.
   

   Lost in a confusion
   Of conflicting emotion
   Offset by the need
   To see--
   Such red, red blood
   Flowing free
   
   Wanting to be alone
   Not willing to be gone
   Offset by a want
   To cry--
   Such clear, clear tears
   Want to die
   
   Hands must keep moving
   Thoughts keep roaming
   Offset by a need
   To see--
   Such red, red blood
   Flowing free
6. Type or copy/paste a passage or section directly from one of your pieces of writing that you consider notable or your favorite that you’ve written.  It could be a section or a page or so.
   This is "Stars":
   
   

   "Darkness had fallen like a velvet curtain, covering the icy winter world in shadows. The moon was a mottled disk of soft, ambient light, gently pushing folds of night away as it rose steadily into the sky. Tiny sparks of light twinkled as stars poked holes into the curtain of darkness. White snow blanketed the frozen ground in waves, glowing gently under the moon's light as it cascaded up tree trunks and the walls of silent houses.

   
   

   Flakes of new snow drifted through the air in between crisp winter breezes. A solitary figure gazed wonderingly at the beautiful night scene with inquisitive green eyes. A pale freckled nose was pressed against the foggy glass of their window, framed by two tiny hands. A giggle broke the peaceful silence and a flash of white teeth seemingly melted into the picturesque perfection outside.

   
   

   It was a boy, risen from his bed as the rest of the world slept. His face filled with amazement as he stared upwards into the crystal clear sky. The stars seemed to glow brighter, speaking to the boy in softly spoken words. The boy slowly lifted a thin arm--as if to touch the stars--only to feel frozen glass. His fingers curled into a fist, and his grin turned slowly into a scowl.

   
   

   "I wish I could touch the stars." His high-pitched voice rang throughout the room.

   
   

   "There is too much space between us." The stars seemed to shine their reply.

   
   

   "I hate space!" The boy whispered furiously.

   
   

   Several flakes of frozen water were pushed into the window by a breeze. "Why" The wind asked.

   
   

   "I want to hug my mother, but she doesn't live with me. I want to hold my baby brother, but he's with God now. I want to see God, but I don't know where Heaven is." The boy was getting was getting upset, wrapping his arms around his frail body. "I want to touch the stars, but they're all in the sky, and I'm down here."

   
   

   The night sky shined with flickering white and yellow stars, and the boy thought they were all looking at him. "Distance gives you the chance to appreciate what you love."

   
   

   "I can't even remember what my mother's arms felt like. Or what my brother looked like." The boy shivered, tears running down his cheeks. "My Dad says God loves us, and that we love him in return. But I've never seen him."

   
   

   The stars quivered in understanding, consoling the boy with their light. "We are distant because we are too hot to touch. Sometimes the things we love must be distant. Sometimes we need to have faith in order to truly realize the depths of our emotions."

   
   

   The winter wind whined against the glass, adding their voice. "I am not always here because I am too harsh to be felt at all times. Sometimes the things we love need to leave for a while, so you might appreciate them even more. Sometimes we need absence to understand the importance of the things we love."

   
   

   Flurries of snow rose from the ground, forming vague figures. "I am not always here because nothing can grow under me. Sometimes the things we love need to be replaced by more important things. Sometimes we need to forgive and understand to make room for more things to love."

   
   

   The moon rose further into the sky, shining directly onto the boy. "Sometimes change is hard, and sometimes we struggle to understand them. But change is necessary to live a fulfilling life, and the happiest people are the ones who learn to accept change.You are still learning. You still have your whole life to learn, love, and live. Do not focus on what was or what could've been, but rather what is and what can be."

   
   

   The boy's tears had stopped, and he now looked at the night with determination. "I understand." He whispered into the darkness, moving away from the window to his bed. He wiped away his tears as he curled underneath his blanket. The warm embrace of sleep found him quickly, sheltering the boy from the cold world outside."
7. What creative writing do you plan to do in the future, if any?  What do you get out of writing creatively?  How does this differ from the other writing you do, in school and in life?
   I plan to continue writing creatively, for as long as I'm able to hold a pencil. Or a laptop. Whatever. Creative writing is how I get my thoughts out, how I say what needs to be said without saying it. Creative writing is where I live, in the fringes of reality, among the mountains of half-truths and beautiful philosophies. I don't plan to give that up, ever. Especially when compared to the droll, restrictive writing in other sections of school.
8. Some final words of encouragement, appreciation, inspiration, etc. for your fellow writers you’ve worked with this quarter...
   To my fellow classmates; to the named and unnamed; to the jokes and jokers; to the writers and readers; to the friends and strangers... Continue on. Change nothing, no matter what anyone else says. Be what you should be, and write what you should write. You are talented, unique, creative, spectacular! You are named and unnamed; jokes and jokers; writers and readers; friends and strangers. You have a life to live and the tools necessary to record your life in any manner imaginable. You have the tools to live any life imaginable. So change nothing, regardless of what anyone else says. Ignore the fact that I, "someone else", have instructed you to not do anything anyone tells you to. You're the only one in control of your life. To my fellow classmates... Continue on.

Stars

Darkness had fallen like a velvet curtain, covering the icy winter world in shadows. The moon was a mottled disk of soft, ambient light, gently pushing folds of night away as it rose steadily into the sky. Tiny sparks of light twinkled as stars poked holes into the curtain of darkness. White snow blanketed the frozen ground in waves, glowing gently under the moon's light as it cascaded up tree trunks and the walls of silent houses.

Flakes of new snow drifted through the air in between crisp winter breezes. A solitary figure gazed wonderingly at the beautiful night scene with inquisitive green eyes. A pale freckled nose was pressed against the foggy glass of their window, framed by two tiny hands. A giggle broke the peaceful silence and a flash of white teeth seemingly melted into the picturesque perfection outside.

It was a boy, risen from his bed as the rest of the world slept. His face filled with amazement as he stared upwards into the crystal clear sky. The stars seemed to glow brighter, speaking to the boy in softly spoken words. The boy slowly lifted a thin arm--as if to touch the stars--only to feel frozen glass. His fingers curled into a fist, and his grin turned slowly into a scowl.

"I wish I could touch the stars." His high-pitched voice rang throughout the room.

"There is too much space between us." The stars seemed to shine their reply.

"I hate space!" The boy whispered furiously.

Several flakes of frozen water were pushed into the window by a breeze. "Why" The wind asked.

"I want to hug my mother, but she doesn't live with me. I want to hold my baby brother, but he's with God now. I want to see God, but I don't know where Heaven is." The boy was getting was getting upset, wrapping his arms around his frail body. "I want to touch the stars, but they're all in the sky, and I'm down here."

The night sky shined with flickering white and yellow stars, and the boy thought they were all looking at him. "Distance gives you the chance to appreciate what you love."

"I can't even remember what my mother's arms felt like. Or what my brother looked like." The boy shivered, tears running down his cheeks. "My Dad says God loves us, and that we love him in return. But I've never seen him."

The stars quivered in understanding, consoling the boy with their light. "We are distant because we are too hot to touch. Sometimes the things we love must be distant. Sometimes we need to have faith in order to truly realize the depths of our emotions."

The winter wind whined against the glass, adding their voice. "I am not always here because I am too harsh to be felt at all times. Sometimes the things we love need to leave for a while, so you might appreciate them even more. Sometimes we need absence to understand the importance of the things we love."

Flurries of snow rose from the ground, forming vague figures. "I am not always here because nothing can grow under me. Sometimes the things we love need to be replaced by more important things. Sometimes we need to forgive and understand to make room for more things to love."

The moon rose further into the sky, shining directly onto the boy. "Sometimes change is hard, and sometimes we struggle to understand them. But change is necessary to live a fulfilling life, and the happiest people are the ones who learn to accept change.You are still learning. You still have your whole life to learn, love, and live. Do not focus on what was or what could've been, but rather what is and what can be."

The boy's tears had stopped, and he now looked at the night with determination. "I understand." He whispered into the darkness, moving away from the window to his bed. He wiped away his tears as he curled underneath his blanket. The warm embrace of sleep found him quickly, sheltering the boy from the cold world outside.

Revision #1

http://deadwordszb.blogspot.com/2015/08/normal-0-false-false-false-en-us-x-none.html

The bright beams of dawn that shined through the window were persistent and sharp, piercing Michael's closed eyes and pulling a low groan out of him. Grumpily, he jerked his comforter over his head and rolled over, refusing to admit the existence of morning. The alarm went off and Michael slapped the clock off the nightstand angrily, encased in an adamant state of denial. Within moments Michael had fallen asleep again, shifting uncomfortably as his world seemed to shift right as he passed into sleep.

Michael opened his eyes groggily, noting the soft light that was just now creeping into his room. His brow furrowed in confusion, peering outside to see that the sun was just now emerging from the horizon. Hadn't the sun already risen? Michael shrugged and glanced at the clock next to his bed, 6:15...huh. Michael pulled on a pair of jeans and a simple t-shirt, combing his unkempt hair and brushing his teeth as he went. On the way to the kitchen he stopped, looking back towards his room. Didn't I hit the clock off the... No, I couldn't have. Breakfast was a simple affair of bread and cheese before he had pulled his shoes on and hurried out the door, throwing on a light jacket.

He hunched his shoulders against the brisk morning air, nodding to a jogger that ran by. He made his way through his neighborhood, glancing disinterestedly at the houses to either side of him. His comfortable silence was broken by an angrily shouted curse, and Michael glanced back to see a huge mastiff running towards him. Behind the dog, and large man was waving his arms and yelling inaudibly, trying to catch the dog. Michael opened his mouth in shock before turning to run from the incoming animal. His thoughts raced, trying to find a way out of this situation. Michael turned to the side just as the huge mastiff came skidding past, making his way into an alley between two houses. Michael kept running through the alley, stopping only when his stomach lurched and everything around him shifted.

Resting his hands on his knees, Michael looked behind him to see that the dog was nowhere to be found. Grinning, Michael gauged his surroundings and realized he was no more than two blocks away from his office. There's no way I made it here this fast. He shook his head and laughed, admitting to himself that he must be faster than he thought.

The Tale of Lord Marion Belesky

Allow me to paint you a scene. I will not utilize paint or wax, but rather words. Imagine a two-story house, built of faded, worn wooden planks and scratched black paint. Cracked stained glass windows adorn much of the front, crossed by thin iron supports and proudly displaying proud saints and figures in faded colors. The front yard is overgrown, weeds and rampant grass having taken over and covered the remains of a once magnificent water fountain. A single giant oak stands off to the left, shaking ominously in the wind and tickling the sides of the house with its too-long branches. The cobbled pathway to the front door is riddled with wild plants, and there are several gaping holes where an errant foot had kicked a loose stone out.

When the house had been built eighty years prior, it was a beautiful, unique structure. The owner of the estate was a man who called himself Lord Marion Belesky, and he was even more grand then the house he had built for himself. The wooden planks were freshly cut and evenly painted in deep, dark colors. The stained glass windows were whole and marvelous, and the front yard was a garden, carefully tended by a whole team of landscapers. The water fountain spouted graceful white arcs, which landed with a resounding splash in a wide pool of crystal clear water. The cobbled pathway was flawless and a spotless, soft white. At any hour of the day, you could stand in front of the house and observe two things: the upstairs lights are not on; and the downstairs lights are on. People were always coming and going, and in the background there was a perpetual noise, hinting at an eternal party or event within those ancient walls. If you had walked that cobblestone path, you would've been met by a resplendent doorman in bright colors, bowing stiffly and taking your coat with white-gloved hands. The servant would've led you through the dark, gorgeous wooden door and golden knocker in the shape of a vicious lion, and showed you to a grand banquet hall. The banquet hall was floored with a caramel colored marble, with dark veins of color running through it. The walls were the finest mahogany, sandalwood, and black wood,  with solid gold lamp fixtures and a chandelier that comprised of thousands of diamonds and other precious stones. There was a table large enough to seat a hundred, built entirely of mahogany and stained a deep red. The carpets were the softest animal fur, and even his boots were exotic leather from the plains of Africa.

You see, Lord Marion Belesky had made his fortune at a young age, inherited from his parents. They had made their fortune from a combination of inheritance and from owning a massive corporation specializing in providing protection for international trade. When Lord Marion Belesky's parents died of mysterious causes, he immediately sold the company and instantaneously became one of the richest men in the world. Lord Marion Belesky built himself a mansion of unnecessary proportions, adorning it with the finest furniture and enhancements. Knowing that he would never have to work again, Lord Marion Belesky (for the sake of simplicity, we shall simply call him "Lord Belesky") started the world's longest lasting party. Lord Belesky opened his doors to anyone dressed finely enough to attend his party, and ordered his large team of servants and cooks to prepare the table and start cooking food.

Every hour of every day, the table was filled with trays of food and beakers of drinks. The chairs were filled with laughing, gleeful party-goers of all ages and sizes. Dozens of cooks worked all day to provide any number of smoked, barbecued, grilled, or baked meats, accented by scores of entrees and appetizers. An entire roast pig sat on a massive platter, next to a tray of perfectly cut tarts adorned by caramelized peaches. A pot filled with baked beans and bacon sat beside a half dozen beakers of different varieties of alcohol and liquor. There wasn't two of anything, and the entire table was covered in a variety of food.

If you weren't too busy gorging yourself on food, you might notice that an entire end of the table was taken up by a single man, wider in girth than a pregnant horse. His skin was pale and caked in a layer of sweat, and his thinning, brown hair was plastered to his forehead. This gargantuan's eyes were small and beady, like black pebbles staring out from deeply inset sockets. Rolls of fat formed several chins, which disappeared underneath a too-tight shirt that stretched at the seams. His grubby, greasy hands greedily brought food to his mouth nonstop, shoving it into his mouth with a hungry growl. You would be right to be disgusted by the sight of this monstrosity, and you would be right if you assumed the identity of this man to be Lord Belesky himself. Once a short, skinny individual, Lord Belesky had transformed himself through days of nonstop eating and minimal movement. The entirety of the second story of his beautiful house was unused, as his legs were wider than they were tall. The faithful who attended his party did well to ignore his presence, choosing instead to focus on eating their food. Those unfortunate enough to sit too close to him quickly lost their appetite after witnessing his gruesome consumption of the closest food, constantly restocked by a stream of tired servants. Attempting to talk to him lead to garbled speech and rowdy laughter before he quickly lost interest and returned to his food.

Few would dare to confront him about his unhealthy habits, especially in light of Lord Belesky's tendency to provide enough fine food for an entire town to feast on, provided your clothes were "high-class" enough. That being said, no one was particularly surprised when one day his disgusting grunts and noises were suddenly cut off. Noticing the sudden absence of light, the entire party halted and turned to watch Lord Belesky. His mouth was open, his body being wrought by horrific spasms. His right hand gripped his left arm in a painful grip, and he toppled off of his chair. The house shook, causing one of the men who had risen to help Lord Belesky to tumble down on top of him. When the man pushed himself up, he found that he was leaning on a dead man. He quickly scrambled away, gasping in shock. In the background, several ladies screamed in terror, one fainting.

Yet, that was the end of the chaos. Despite the fact that a dead man was lying on the floor, several people continued eating. Despite the fact that this dead man had been providing the food that they were eating, the majority of people saw no issue in continuing the party. Lord Belesky's show of kindness and charitable goodness were doing him no good, as his kindness killed him and brought him no kindness from the people he had shown it to. Eventually, the part-goers left, leaving his body behind. At some point during the week a group of men with scarfs tied around their noses to block the stench tore a hole in one of the walls and carted Lord Belesky's corpse to the nearest cemetery, loading it into the back of a cart. A week later, the house was considerably empty of its luxuries, having been looted by neighbors and common folk alike. And a week after that, the house was completely abandoned, only to be whispered about by passerby.

Allow me to paint you a scene. I will not utilize paint or wax, but rather words. There is a house in downtown London, built by a man who called himself Lord Marion Belesky. He was quite possibly a murderer, and most definitely a brilliant business man. Lord Marion Belesky decided that, after acquiring this mountain of wealth, he would use it to feed whoever would attend. Lord Marion Belesky decided that, after throwing a party that would go on for weeks, that he loved the food that he was buying more than the money he was using to buy it. The people who attended this party decided that Lord Marion Belesky was a good man for throwing this party. The people who attended this party also decided that they loved the food more than the loved the man who was buying it. And that, my friends, is the tale of Lord Marion Belesky.

Ode to Life

Dawn's hard frost covers the browning grass, tumbling the world into a cascade of pale white and crisp air. Leaves, colored red and orange and yellow, are ripped from surrounding trees by a rush of harsh, cold wind. The forest slows, hung on the brink of impending winter. Surrounding a lone man hovers hushed sounds of life; the quick chattering of squirrels searching for a temporary home; the rustling of a branch as a bird of prey lands; the stealthy step of a coyote creeping through the underbrush. Two proud black grouse ruffle their thickening feathers, moving in quick, graceful pecks and jerks, unaware of the other. They idly search for loose seed and food, slowly moving close to each other. Suddenly, one grouse spots the beautiful, deep blue plumage of the other grouse, and cocks his head, watching silently. The other grouse raises his red-crowned head and stares back, not moving. Both grouse raiser their feathers and ruffle, silently engaging in a war of arrogance. A lone man crouches silently in the trees at the edge of the field, watching the two magnificent birds. He raises a long barrel of manufactured steel, singing under his breath. He thanks the forest for this gift of food and life. The two grouse circle each other warily, tilting their head one way then the other. The lone man finishes his softly spoken song in a long hiss of breath, exhaling. He pulls the trigger.

Missing in Venice

Even with her mighty engines in reverse, the ocean liner was pulled further and further into the canal.

Kerri wrinkled her pale, faintly freckled nose as a fat drop of rain hit it. She looked up at the sky, exasperated, and turned to her companion. "Jesus, Chris, can't we get some sun around here? I'm tired of this perpetual cloud cover. The whole city is morbidly depressed."

"And morbidly obese." Chris snickered, shrugging off the comment. "Come on, Kerri, we live in Venice. It's not like we're not used to the water."

"Just because I'm used to the water doesn't mean I enjoy it. I want to get tan!" Kerri kicked a lone pebble into the nearest canal, watching as soft waves reverberated outwards.

Chris came up and wrapped his arms around her shoulders, whispering into her ear. "When have you ever been tan? Is that even a thing for redheads?"

Kerri elbowed Chris in the stomach hard, laughing when he doubled over. "Jerk. I can get tan. I just need to get rid of these blasted clouds." More plump drops of water plummeted out of the sky, peppering her fine, fiery red hair. Kerri's brow furrowed over her pale blue eyes, and she sighed dramatically. "Why can't we live in America? Where it's always sunny, and all the guys are blonde, tall, and totally hot."

"I'm not sure you know what you're talking about."Chris started chuckling, then stopped and glared at Kerri. "Hey, I'm tall. And blonde. And—"

"If you say you're hot I'm going to smack that self-centered smirk off your face." Kerri came close and stood on her toes, planting a soft kiss on Chris's lips. "Maybe you're not totally hot, but you'll do."

Chris was about to respond, a sneer already hovering on his lips, when it suddenly started pouring. As if the floodgates of heaven had been opened, gallons of water instantly drenched Kerri and Chris. Thin strands of white-hot lightning flickered across the darkening sky, and a loud crash of thunder hammered into their ears, causing the ground to shake.

Kerri screamed in frustration, staring down at her soaked clothes. "You know what? Screw you, world! All I f—" Another clash of thunder shot across the sky, drowning Kerri out, "wanted was a nice, sunny day to enjoy. But no, apparently we get three months of this s—" The next flash of lightning lit up the surrounding area in perfect clarity, and the resulting thunder followed so close behind it was nearly instantaneous.

"Kerri!" Chris yelled into her ear, struggling to be heard over the screaming wind and rumbling thunder. "We should get inside, or we'll catch our death out here." Chris grabbed Kerri's arm and dragged her behind him, trying not to laugh as she pointlessly showed her middle finger to everything in general. All around them, the canals were suddenly empty of locals and tourists alike, leaving Kerri and Chris stranded on the side of the canal. The nearest shop sold antiques and ancient memorabilia of times long gone, and the shop owner was standing passively in the doorway, observing the storm and the couple's progress.

Eventually the drenched, shivering pair of people stood in front of the shop owner, silently pleading with him to let them in. Wordlessly, he stepped aside and allowed them sanctuary. Kerri retreated deep inside the store, grumbling. "Everybody said we'd have sun today. Like a one-percent chance of rain. What did we get? A freakin' hurricane."

"At least it makes for some romantic kisses. Amongst other things." Chris lamented solemnly, gazing at Kerri with a serious expression. Kerri flicked him in the forehead as she walked past, looking at all the strange objects.

"How in the world is this even possible? It was barely cloudy when we left this morning." The store owner still stood at the door, which was now closed against the weather. With an echoing crack, a bolt of blue-streaked lightning struck a building on the opposite side of the canal. The entire store was lit up, and a long, spindling crack appeared in one of the windows. "Holy—"

"No vulgar profanity in my store." The shop owner didn't turn to look at Kerri, still staring impassively at the storm. Already the canals were beginning to lap at the walkways, overflowing completely.

Kerri huffed, glaring at the man's back. "Great, this is just great. Stuck in a stupid store with a stupid, stuck-up old man and a stupid, sarcastic boyfriend with a stupid storm preventing me from leaving. Stupid."

"Well, why in the world would you want to leave? This is just great. Look at this...uh, what is this thing?" Chris held a small, ornately decorated box. A gold clasp held it shut.

"That is a music box. It plays music." Again, the shop owner didn't bother to look at either of the two young people in his store.

"Huh, cool." Chris put the box back, looking around. "This storm won't last too long Kerri, you'll see."

"Yeah, right." Kerri stopped as a persistent rumbling began in the distance. The store began to shake faintly. The store owner frowned and leaned forward, looking in the direction of the strange noise. A long minute of lightning and thunder passed, with the sound becoming consistently louder every moment. Kerri looked at Chris and came to stand by the store owner. "Is it an earthquake?"

The old man shook his head, "No, it is worse."

"How in the world could it be worse than an earthquake?" Chris looked in the direction the man was looking, and stopped talking, mouth agape.

"What? What is it?" Kerri came a little closer to the window and looked.

"It is a boat." The old man pointed, just as a proud white prow appeared around the corner, a dozen stories in the air. Small, iron framed, circular windows followed, emerging with the rest of a massive cruise ship. Even with her mighty engines in reverse the ocean liner was being pulled further and further into the canal. "I suggest we get back." The old man turned around and walked further into the store, as if nothing was particularly wrong. Like panicked animals, Chris and Kerri scrambled after him.

"How the hell is that possible?" Chris pointed towards the window, where the single crack was quickly becoming dozens of spidery faults in the window. The shaking grew louder and louder, accented by the sounds of massive buildings collapsing with the collision of the huge boat. People were screaming in pain and terror, barely audible over the still occurring maelstrom of rain and wind.

The man shrugged, moving as far back as he could. "I do not know how or why, only that there is more to this storm than we can see with our eyes." He picked up a book and began reading, only to have it struck out of his hand by Chris.

"This is not the time to read you bastard! What do we do?" Kerri clung to Chris's arm, fearfully looking towards the door. Waves of green-tinted water hit the door and store windows, spreading out ahead of the impending doom that was the ocean liner.

The old man ignored Chris, looking at the front of his store. With a resounding boom, a stray bolt of lightning hit the windows, shattering them completely. A wave of heat, rain, and wind followed the blindingly bright light, hitting the three people like a brick wall. Creeping after the wave of chaos and nature, the scratched, torn up black hull of a cruise ship came into view from the gaping, sizzling hole of the store.

The Dancers

The lighted screen flickered briefly before turning to a gilded logo: two hands clasped together, with a burning flag of red, white, and blue behind them. Utilitarian, rhythmic drums began in the background, coupled with the soft bleats and overly high-pitched sounds of trumpets. Mrs. Johnson sighed at her husband, huffing irritably through her mask.
"Do they really have to show the national symbol before and after every show? I feel like I see it more often then the actual programs."
"Hush darling, it's about to start." Mr. Johnson absentmindedly pat Mrs. Johnson's arm, staring at the screen.
Thirty seconds passed, then the music and emblem faded out, before flickering to a picture of the stage. A line of dark skinned girls wearing medical masks surged onto the stage, prancing in their shoes. Immediately they began to dance to the sound of repetitive drums and constant trumpets, twirling and spinning in perfect unison. Mrs. Johnson giggled, swaying to the sound of the music, staring in awe at the dancers.
Then the dancers began to chant, their voices wavering slightly with the exertion. Their chant drowned out the sound of music, and even drowned out the sight of dancing. It weaved its way into the heads of Mrs. and Mr. Johnson, and they were completely entranced. "We give you Protection. We give you Order. We give you Truth. And through it all, We give you Beauty. We are the United States of the World." The dancers sung nonstop, the incessant noise filling the room. Faintly, in the background, the sound of Mr. and Mrs. Smith from next door watching the dancers could be heard. In the opposite direction, Mr. and Mrs. Richardson watched with their government-approved child, Richard.
Mr. Johnson was busy adjusting his mask when Mrs. Johnson gasped, grabbing his arm. Mr. Johnson looked up, seeing a single child stepping away from the other dancers, out of formation. The other dancers continued as best as they could, but the single intruder smoothly stepped into their formations and lines, breaking everyone up. The music stuttered and came to a stop.
"Men and women of the World," her voice was tiny, insignificant, "we have long suffered under this tyranny, forced to stay in our homes with our masks, and our televisions. We can't even have children when we want, forced to apply for one. No longer can we go outside, or see the sun. Our food is delivered to us. Our clothing is provided by the government." The more she spoke the straighter she stood, her voice getting louder. Mr. and Mrs. Johnson stood entranced, unable to look away. "We've had enough! They claim to give us Protection, but kill us for the slightest mistake. They claim to give us Order, and take away our freedom. They claim to give us Truth, and even that is a lie. I say enough! I say—"
Armed men stormed into the building, armed with fully automatic rifles and 9mm handguns. The other children began screaming as the soldiers opened fire. The little girl who spoke stood defiantly as two men turned on her, pulling the trigger without hesitation. Bullets tore through her flesh, ripping a scream out of her mouth. A single bullet passed through her forehead and silenced her forever. Every girl turned and ran, scrambling for the doors. A child no older than six was shot in the back as she sprinted away. An officer yelled orders and guns turned towards cameras. One by one they were shot out, until the screen was black.
Outside, the sound of large, armored vehicles echoed, making the house shake. Mr. Johnson shakily stood up, pulling himself from the iron grasp of Mrs. Johnson, and made his was to the small, closed window near the door. He hesitantly pulled open a blind, right as the gunfire started.

The Full Fabulous Fight of Frivolous Fiendish Finnish Friends in France

Starting from the far left:
Austin (9), Laura (11), Leanne (4), Charlie (5), Jimmy (13)

"NO! I DON'T WANT TO!" Austin's high-pitched squeal shattered the relatively complacent environment. His mother desperately tried to placate him, making soft hand motions and soothing noises. "I'M NOT TAKING A PICTURE!"
Laura scoffed, pushing the younger child. "Come on,  you big baby, it's just a picture! Do it for my baby sister." Being the oldest girl there (mothers didn't count), Laura took on an arrogant air, constantly commanding her "legions of children" to complete tasks for her.
"I don't care! I won't do it. Don't make me!" Austin jutted his lip out in an attempt to sway his mother, taking on a slight tremble. His mother looked at him with patient eyes, sighing. Austin furrowed his brows and added tears to the corners of his eyes, sniffling and quivering his bottom lip.
"You're taking the picture, Austin. We don't get opportunities like this often. Do it for me?" With magnificent aplomb, Austin's mother matched his facial expression, tear for tear. This only succeeded in making Austin laugh, but didn't change his mind.
Charlie, the second youngest, waddled over in a fit of fury. A whirlwind swept at her feet, throwing leaves and debris into the air. The sky darkened and lightning flickered. At least, Charlie liked to think that is what was happening. "Austin! Go take the picture you—you meanie!" She spoke so fast it was difficult to understand her, but Austin got the gist. "You don't speak to your mommy like that. You're such an idiom!"
Laura stepped in, always the attentive mediator. "Charlie! Be nice."
Charlie turned her blue-eyed glare on Laura. "Imma hit you with a shovel."
Austin's mother started rubbing her eyes, sighing again. "You children are helpless. Laura, where's your mother?"
Laura's chest puffed up as she pointed officially at her mother. "Getting Leanne ready." She spoke with pride, happy that she knows the answer.
"And where's your brother and mother, Charlie?"
"Imma hit you with a shovel too."
"Right. Laura?"
"Jimmy and his mom are over there, ma'am." Laura grinned at Austin, preening under the attention.
"Thank you. Let's get ready for the picture guys." Austin's mom started shepherding the children, ignoring little Charlie's threats.
"I'm not going to!" Austin yelled again, pulling away from the group. Jimmy, the oldest of the children, comes over.
"Why aren't you doing it?" He asked in his authoritative, wise, thirteen-year-old voice.
"I don't want to!"
"That's pretty childish. I'm doing it."
Austin thought about it, tapping his chin in a comical manner. "Fine, I'll do it." Austin's mother rolled her eyes, silently thanking Jimmy.
"Come on guys, let's go."
The children were lined up, and the birthday girl Leanne was placed on a wooden platform. Austin looked decidedly terrified, but the other children were calm and composed. At least, as calm and composed as children can be. As the picture was being taken, Leanne spoke up.
"I'm three years old!"
Leanne and Laura's mother: "You're four now, Leanne!"
"No I'm three!"
"Four!"
"I'm almost five years old, right mommy?"
Leanne's mother sighed. "Yes, baby, you're almost five. But now you're four."
"Three!"
The picture was taken.

The Aeolist's Photos

Note: The word "aeolist" does not refer to me, as I am rather adept at adoxography. If you don't understand what these words mean, then I raise my dactylion at you. That was a charientism. Now I want to hear none of your exsibilation. I also want no floccinaucinihilipilification here, as it is not relevant in regard to this post. Now, I apologize for being a hippopotomonstrosesquipadlian. Go read my post (I'll keep it free of sesquipadalians).

Who takes most of the photos in your family?
I take most of the photos in my family, as my entire family seem to agree on one thing: that I have the best camera in the family. My phone is a Lumia 830 with a 10 megapixel PureView camera with Carl Zeiss optics, a f/2.0 aperture, and fourth generation OIS (optical image stabilization).  It also has a dedicated two-stage camera shutter and Lumia exclusive features such as access to Lumia Camera 5, Rich Capture, Dynamic Flash, and a new generation of Living Images. Lumia Camera 5 offers full manual controls (something that only a few other phones have started offering--while Lumias have had the feature for years now)advanced image algorithms, and an intiuitive, simple design and interface. The latest generation offers faster focusing, faster shot-to-shot speeds, better post-image processing, and new features over the last generation. Rich Capture is an advanced HDR (high dynamic range) that allows you to edit the lighting and exposure of the picture after the shot has been taken, a feature only found on PureView Lumias. Dynamic Flash is similar to Rich Capture which allows you to edit the flash and lighting of a photo after you've taken the picture (again exclusive to PureView Lumias). Living Images is a more refined, better executed version of Apple's Live Photos on the iPhone 6s and 6s Plus, as it's existed for two years longer than Live Photos. Although my phone isn't the best performing camera phone out there, or even the best Lumia device, it's still quick and takes fantastic pictures with accurate, vivid colors and saturation and a good amount of detail. It easily surpasses the Moto X(2014), Samsung Galaxy S5, and the last-generation iPhone 6 (the phones present in my house). Modern phones like the Samsung Galaxy S6 (16 megapixel, OIS, f/1.9 aperture), LG V10 (16 megapixel, OIS, f/1.8 aperture), Apple iPhone 6s (12 megapixels, f/2.2 aperture), Microsoft Lumia 950 (20 megapixel, OIS, f/1.9 aperture, triple-LED RGB flash), and Microsoft Lumia 950 XL (same as Lumia 950) do surpass my phone in many ways, but since my phone costs half the price of a new Samsung Galaxy S6 or LG V10 (and two thirds of the price of a Microsoft Lumia 950), it's a great value. The picture above is of a limited edition Lumia 830 with a gold plated frame.

Who is missing in most of your photos? The photographer? Someone else?
As I am usually the photographer, I am usually missing from the photos. I also do not enjoy taking pictures of myself or being present in other people's pictures. Nor do I enjoy taking pictures of myself using my phones front facing camera. Ironically, while the rear-facing camera is exception for the price of the phone, the front-facing camera is only sub-par and possibly slightly below average (being 0.9 megapixels versus 1.2 megapixels on the iPhone 6, or even 5 megapixels on the iPhone 6s, Samsung Galaxy S6, or Microsoft Lumia 950).

How are the photos in your family organized, archived, or displayed?
Some of the photos are in photo albums, on my mother's computer or Dropbox, or on my phone and my OneDrive. I organize my photos in my OneDrive.

Are photos important to you?
I enjoy taking photos, and I believe they're important to capturing memories and moments that we'd like to remember for longer and with sharper detail. They may not be the most important thing to me, especially since they're backed up so thoroughly, so I have no fear of losing them, but I do enjoy them.

One of my family's weirdest or funniest photos is of...
I'm not sure. I have a really funny picture I took of my mother when she seriously wasn't expecting it. I show that to everyone. But none come to mind. Honestly, humor works better in a story. A memory. At least, in my head, the photos I remember the most are beautiful and filled with emotion.

I wish I had a picture of...
I wish I could've used my camera to take pictures of my baby brother. He passed away when he was three months old, back when cameras really weren't very good (and smartphones was just an idea in movies). I'd like to have more of everything of him, but I was still too young to fully understand what was happening at the time.

Photo POACH

Someone who makes you laugh/smile:

The fact that I have managed to justify all 15 of my pictures as Meghan makes me laugh AND smile. 

#nohashtags 

 Someone who has taught you something or helped you somehow:

Meghan has taught me that she can be anything she wants, like "Something from nature" or "Something that looks like a face but isn't really."

#hashtagsaretheworst

 Someone you'd like to be more like:

I'd like to be more like Meghan. I don't know why. It was just another way to get yet another picture of her in this blog post. Mwahaha.

#enoughwiththehashtags

 A book:

Meghan is holding a book. As the saying goes: "You are what you're holding in front of your face," therefore Meghan is a book.

#pleasestop

 Something square:

Revert back to the previous caption. Reminiscence about my sheer creativity and genius. Or something. Realize that the slim young lady is now a stack of sticky notes. Notice that they are square.

#nomorehashtags

 Something round:

Utilize the same line of "logic" and "reasoning" that I have previously used to capture your interest. Meghan is holding a round object (this object may have been identified as a fish bowl), therefore Meghan IS a round object (she is not fat).

#it'scausingmephysicalpain

An interesting angle:

This is a pretty interesting angle. Can anyone deny that this is not the traditional angle of a traditional picture? And yet, it is still of Meghan. Haha.

#notsureif''''''''areallowedinhashtags

 Something handwritten:

For those with weak eyes or weak stomachs, allow me to impart on you the knowledge of this "something handwritten." Written by her own Meghan-y hand, the note says thusly: "Help me...please." Relish this fragment of wisdom.

#I'mgettingaheadachefromthese

 Something from nature:

I could argue that Meghan is, in fact, from nature, but that wasn't enough. I had to drag her forcefully into the terrifying "outside world" and watch her squirm and fidget under a horrifying tree monster. From nature.

#whencanIstop

 Something that looks like a face but isn't really:

What is this? Some form of black magic? Not at all! Observe, and listen closely. Meghan does not have a wand, merely a black sharpie! Those are not eyes you see on her hand, but two black spots drawn in...black sharpie. Be amazed, be very amazed!

#sodonewiththese

 Something a little kid might notice or find interesting:

Oh gosh the horror! The horror! The terrifying, ID card picture! It is only spoken of in whispers, and hidden from view from everyone. It's the stuff of nightmares. However, Meghan's isn't that bad. So she has that going for her.

#that'sitnomorehashtags

 Something that makes you feel nostalgic/brings back an important memory:

Ah, taking pictures of people when they're not ready for it. It's a science, an art. Dare I say...lifestyle? Perhaps it's none of the above. Whatever it is, we all remember moments where the picture was taken and we weren't taken with the picture.

*hayouexpectedahashtagandgotanasterik

 Something that irritates you or other people:

Oh come on this isn't mean. Everyone has irritating moments. I probably should've posted a picture of myself here, as I'm far more annoying and irritating than most other people. But of course, I couldn't give up my Meghan-ish streak. Which is probably annoying her to no end.

%whatwasthat?nohashtag?sadface

 Something that is beautiful:

And now I make up for the last picture! Of course, I wouldn't be myself if I didn't post a picture of Meghan with her eyes closed for this category. I'm just the devil, aren't I? But even with her eyes closed this category is deserved. Awww.

^juststoplookingforit

Something that will always remind you of being at KHS:

About this point the formatting started messing up and this picture had to be removed and re-added and I realized that none of these were being added as captions because I forgot to left-click on the pictures and select "add-caption" over on the right-hand side of the blue bar that appears and there's a weird space above the "caption" of the last picture that I can't remove but it's not really important so there! Anyways, yeah.

#okayyoucanhaveonemore 

 [INSERT QUOTE HERE...okay so I couldn't find a quote that fit the theme of this blog in the thirty seconds of searching so feel free to amaze yourself with your own self-created quotes and such...bye!]

Pain

Pain can be the only thing to let you know you’re still alive. It can be the only salvation against an incessant onslaught of generic, pathetic woes and pitiful whims and cares. Pain is my dearest friend, because it's the only thing I still feel.
Pain is my only friend.

. . .

 

Her useless words fluttered around me like so many annoying flies, seeking attention. Urging me to destroy the source. She looked at me as if she wanted something, and my mind idly searched for her previous words. "What a lovely day. We should go to the park!"

"I'm afraid I don't have the time." My mouth twisted in a pale imitation of a smile. "So sorry."

"Do you not enjoy the park? I just adore them, all the little ducks and children running around a pond." She giggled, fluttering her eyelids at me. Internally I roll my eyes, imagining holding her under the water of the aforementioned pond. The first real smile of the conversation emerges.

I looked down at my watch and pretended a sigh. "I do apologize, but I must go. I have a meeting." I stood and set the necessary funds onto the table, paying for the coffee and more. I turned to get my coat only to find her standing there, laying a single pale hand on my arm.

"Oh, let me walk with you?" Stop simpering you pathetic idiot! I composed my features and smiled, in my mind slamming her head into the table.

"Anything you want, of course." I took her arm in mine and opened the door for her, feigning the perfect gentleman. Wanting to slide a knife into her side. The emptiness, the un-feeling, the anti-emotion, it was worse that day. It had grown and festered since that morning, bubbling to be released. Aching to feel something, anything. A void of nothingness, wanting to be filled. Filled with what? My eyes flicked to the pulse in her neck, and my pulse quickened. Filled with blood. We were passing my house. I could... "I need to stop and get something."

She nodded and looked up at me, one side of her mouth pulling up. "Just going to leave me out here?"

I shook my head, grinning at her. "Come in. I couldn't leave you out here." I lead her up to the door, holding it open for her. Locking it behind her. "Let me get you a drink."

"I thought you were just grabbing something?"

"It'll take a few minutes. Please, get comfortable." She nodded and sat down, crossing her elegant legs. I crossed to the kitchen, opening the cabinet for a glass. I turned the water on, and started filling the glass. Then I saw it. It taunted me at the edges of my vision. An ethereal wraith in my peripheral. Whispering sweet promises, ultimate redemption. Hardened steel and a razor edge. I glanced back and could see her doing something with her shirt, pulling it lower. I snorted and turned back to the knife, my un-feeling burning anew. My fingers twitched and suddenly I was holding the knife.

Holding it blade down, parallel to my body and slightly behind me, I walked towards her. I held the glass of water in my other hand. "Here, I don't have much, so." I handed the glass to her on her left side, and my right hand came up and pressed the knife against her throat. Her eyes widened as I slid the sharpened edge against her fragile skin, pressing hard. A tiny gasp of air, an infinitesimal moan of pain, then a enriching choking sound. Her blood welled up hard and fast, bubbling over and soaking her shirt. I quickly came around the couch and grabbed her chin, turning her head so it faced me. The look in her eyes...my un-feeling pulsed, drinking in the look of pain and hopelessness. I brought the bloodied knife up and held it in front of her dying eyes, watching light reflect off the steel and crimson liquid. Looking back, I noticed that her throes had become less frantic, her chokes less desperate. Her eyes started to close.

In a moment of inspiration, I brought the knife back down, pressing the edge against my forearm. A quick jerk, and I had opened up a long straight line in my arm. Blood immediately starting welling up, and I watched it trickle down my flesh and mix with the pools of her blood. Her... does she even have a name? My smile was gruesome, demonic. Not anymore. Never again. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it around my arm, staunching the blood flow. Not once did I glance at the inanimate corpse sprawled on my couch.

Half an hour later, I was showered and dressed in a fresh suit, and the wound in my arm had stopped bleeding. I started packing my briefcase, preparing to go to work. I glanced at the now clean knife on the counter and pursed my lips, considering. Finally, I slid it into my briefcase. The locks snicked shut and I swung around, sliding out the door and locking it behind me. I whistled joyfully as I ambled to work, smiling gallantly at a passing young women. She grinned back, glancing back as she walked past. The doors to the offices slid open and I called a greeting to the security guard sitting behind the reception desk. He held up his hand hesitantly, as if not sure how to react to a genuine "Good afternoon!" I made my way to my office.

Halfway there, I heard a voice calling my name. I looked back and saw Jerry Winhelm, his brown, floppy hair helplessly slicked back. "Hey, the meeting is about to start! Come on, I have to grab my laptop, then we can go together."

I nodded and smiled at him. "Sounds like a plan. Any idea what this meeting is about?"

"Probably about Rick harassing that poor secretary. You know, the one who quit?" Jerry chuckled. "You seem to be in a good mood. Is there a lady involved?" He elbowed me suggestively, grinning.

My laugh was genuine. "Yes, there's a lady involved. She made me feel alive."

Jerry nodded sagely. "That's good, you do seem half dead most of the time." He winked at me. "What's she like?"

My expression of joy started to fade. "It was a single moment of passion. She can't offer anything more to me."

"Whatever you say man," he snorted. "Hold on, just have to grab my laptop." He opened the door to his office and walked in. I was only a step behind him, pushing the door shut. He looked back. "Need something?"

"Yes, I have a favor to ask." I walked up to him, angling to the side so we were standing parallel to the desk.

"Anything, man." He turned away and started unplugging his laptop. My hand picked up the corded phone beside me, and my other arm swung the briefcase into Jerry's head. He was knocked to the side, disorientated and groaning. I dropped the briefcase and wrapped the phone cord around his neck several times, pulling back hard. He started choking, kicking his feet in a futile effort to stand up. His hands starting clawing at the cord, then my hands, then my arms, then his face, slowing down as the moments passed. Jerry stopped kicking. A moment later, Jerry ceased to exist. I dragged the nameless body behind the desk and tidied up the office, pulling the knife out of my briefcase. Looking down at the corpse, I held the knife against my unharmed arm and slid it slowly against my skin. A longer, shallower cut joined the first gaping wound, bleeding less but stinging more. I breathed in, breathing in the pain and elation.

"I'm afraid you weren't as good as Ms. No-Name, Mr. No-Name. Alas, I find I like the sight of blood. Something to remember for next time. Have a good day." I nodded my head and walked out of the office, shutting the door behind me.

The rest of the board were already sitting at their places. I took my seat next to a lady named Clarissa. I glanced at her and frowned. Pale, skinny, and old. She would be no fun. To my other side sat Rick. Bingo. My thoughts were interrupted by the head of the board walking in.

"Right, let's get started—" He paused. "Where's Jerry? I just saw him."

"Ah," I raised my right hand partially, "he said he had a family emergency and had to leave. Something about his brother."

"Hm, I didn't know Jerry had a brother." He shrugged, "Moving on! I'm here to discuss how an employee should treat another employee—"

Clarissa gasped. "What happened to your arm? It's bleeding!"

I peered at the hand that I had raised, and saw that blood had soaked through my shirt. "Mm, I cut myself on the way to work. It's not a big deal, I wouldn't miss work for a little cut."

Rick, looking a little pale, piped up. "Uh, sir, maybe I should walk him out, grab the first aid kit."

The director glowered. "Very well. But don't you go far, Rick."

Rick stood up and gripped my shoulder. "Come on, buddy."

I sighed dramatically and nodded. "Very well." Rick walked out into the hallway. Behind him, I pulled the knife out of my briefcase and started whistling.

"Whatcha whistling?" He turned the corner.

"I don't think you'll care much." I came up behind him.

"Why's that? I—" I slammed the knife upwards, impaling him on the long blade in his lower back. I angled the blade upward, stabbing into his kidney. The scream was caught in his throat, dragged back down by the pain.  His legs no longer held his weight, and he collapsed to the ground. I slide the knife out and stabbed again, higher and more central, and severed his spine. Immediately he stopped struggling, and moments later his breath passed out of him. I pushed my sleeve up and drew another line next to the original wound, then pat Rick down. In a holster on his hip I found a loaded 9MM handgun, which I slid into my belt.

"Well, Mr. No-Name the II, congratulations. You were the best one yet." I grinned down at him, clenching my fist. Suddenly, I heard a scream directly behind me. I twisted and shot up, tackling a small figure to the ground. Looking down, I saw it was Clarissa, and I clasped my hand against her mouth. "Saw a little too much, didn't you?" She struggled in my grasp, trying to scream. Without hesitation I stabbed Clarissa in the side, directly under her armpit. The sharp steel slid into her heart and killed her almost instantly. My breathing was even, calm.

No wasting time with cutting. I drew the handgun from my belt and stood, pivoting until I came face to face with the rest of the board. A man near the back paled and fumbled with something on his belt. I turned towards him and fired a single round, taking him through the side of his head. He collapsed to the ground, surrounded by screams and whimpering. "Everyone, back into the conference room. Now." A woman tried to run past me and I smoothly intercepted her, slamming my knife into her gut. Over and over and slid the knife out and pushed it back in, until my left arm was covered in gore. "Right, now you know the consequences of trying to run. Move along, now."

DISCLAIMER: I really felt I could've written this story better. I'm not a fan of it. The subject is interesting, but the execution is far from acceptable for me. I'm not going to bother finishing this, but I might revisit it at a later date.
Have a lovely night,
Zachary

The Candy... It Speaks to Me!

As I reached into the bag of candy, I thought I heard a voice saying, “Pick me, pick me!”

Halloween was over. Good riddance. A silly collection of shabby costumes and cheap paint? The incessant background noise of rowdy, hyper children who can't keep quiet or keep still? Yeah, no thanks. I never got anything out of Halloween. I never cared for the dress-up, or the make-up, or the sick-up that came afterwards. I was a strange child. I'm still a strange...thing. The only thing I ever enjoyed from Halloween was the secret not-so-secret pilfering of candy from my little siblings. The completely-out-in-the-open hidden taking of candy was my personal pride. A tradition that came every year during a time I didn't care to exist in. Stealing little wrapped bites of chocolate and hard spots of sweetness was always a joy to me. I'm a thief (not a put-me-in-jail kind of thief. A ha-your-pencil-disappeared-how-funny kind of thief), and I'm proud of it. Now that Halloween was over, it was time for the poaching to begin.
I attacked my sister's stash first. She's particularly picky about her candy so it's best to get the good stuff from her before she sorts it out and sorts it farther away from me. She's like that, completely OCD and a future don't-touch-my-stuff-especially-my-food kind of lady. I stuffed my pockets full and retreated to my room, safely ensconced inside white walls and a door with an unseen "No Entry" sign that's more spiritual than physical but is just as effective. Candy hidden, I once again emerged to find my little brother's pile of goodies. He was a little more difficult. Utterly territorial of his candy and far more likely to hide it, it took a whole four minutes and twenty seconds to uncover it under his pillow and reach inside. As I reached into the bag of candy, I thought I heard a voice saying, "Pick me, pick me!" Except I know I heard it. I, of course, dropped the bag of candy. "Ow! Why'd you do that?" One little voice said. "Because he's an idiot, obviously." Another answered.
I picked up the bag of candy and threw it as hard as I could against the wall. Then for good measure I went over and stomped on it a bit. There weren't anymore voices. I glanced inside and saw a piece of chocolate and a sucker with little faces on them. Both of them had comical, tiny "x's" over their eyes. I shrugged and pulled them out, consuming the chocolate first. Talking candy, that was certainly a new experience. I grabbed some more candy and once again returned to my room, hogging out on all my new treats. Being the nine year old I am, I completely forgot all about talking candy the moment another piece of chocolate hit my tongue.

My Movie Watching... Habits

I don't watch movies. I said this in an earlier post and I'll say it again (third time's the charm, after all). I don't watch movies. Well, I do, and I have, but not regularly. I'm not a huge fan of them, and most of the movies I've seen don't really register in my head (and some unfortunately do). My favorites are the ones that do register. The interesting, weird ones. They have to make me laugh, or think, or both. I don't need a movie to be sad and I don't need a movie to be excited. Make me happy, or make me thoughtful, and if you're neither of those then I don't care. Bill Murray movies are great because they do both. Interesting, weird. So I avoid anything that really doesn't fit those two categories. I usually watch movies...wherever the movie is playing. It doesn't matter, if I want to watch it I will. When? Whenever. It, again, doesn't matter. What? I don't care. I don't need popcorn, or a warm blanket, or even a place to sit (although all three are nice).

According to the survey, I'm a reserved, quiet introvert with a warm, trusting (hahahahaha), agreeable nature that's sometimes (always) stubborn and competitive (eh). I'm conscientious and organized,  and have high standards. I always strive for my goals (well duh). I'm calm and can deal with stress (pfft) but sometimes experience guilt, anger, or sadness (what? Really?). I'm practical but willing to try new things and try to seek a balance between the old and new (nah, I'm seventeen so I'm completely set in my ways like a ninety year old man). Apparently I mostly watch movies for the pleasure-seeking and artistic values but also for socializing and action aspects. I also like sensation-seeking and information-seeking. Eh. I give this survey a C++ (heh heh, programming joke).

If my life was made into a movie, no one would play me because it'd be such a boring movie and nothing would ever happen and no one would watch it...which is a good thing! Yay!

"Dan in Real Life" (Which Dan?)

Today I'm going to be a bit snappy as to be honest I'd quite like to read my newest book ("Magonia" by Maria Dahvana Headley... It's a strange mix between John Green-esque writing and fantasy fiction. It's quite good although nowhere near being the best) so I'm not going to elaborate a whole lot.

1). I believe we tend to write about what we know, but every now and then it's good to write about what we're not sure about, especially in fiction. We sometimes need to stretch outside our comfort zones and write about something we're not knowledgeable about or don't know how to write for. If you always write about your life, than write about a made-up person for once. If you're always making things up, write about yourself (something I've yet to do in this class). Write about what you know, sure, but don't JUST write about what you know.

2). The three tips I would give about teenagers? Remember how it was to be a teenager, and make sure you understand we make mistakes, and we make a lot of them. A little forgiveness for losing control and snapping back every now and then wouldn't hurt. Remember, understand, forgive.

3). I wouldn't want to write for a newspaper because I like for what I write about to sit for a few days so I can come back and go "Oh, that could be better, let's change that and improve that." Raw writing like I'm doing right now can be good sometimes but, frankly speaking, your best work always comes when you finish it then come back later and realize all the things that you didn't see the first time you finished. I'm still going back to poetry I wrote years ago and seeing all these places to improve. I never change the meaning, just how I portray it. Newspapers are almost always raw writing. Maybe not quite like this, but you typically don't get any time to have it sit in the back of your brain. Newspapers also have deadlines. Writing doesn't.

4). Dan did in fact want his kids to follow that age-old saying at first, and that's the wrong thing to do. Kids look at their parents for knowledge, advice, and guidance. When a child sees their parents doing something, in their heads it's the right thing to do, because their parents are doing it. Parents always have to remember that what they do is far more impressionable than what they say. Actions speak louder than words, right?

5). Age isn't important with love or dating. It's maturity. It's about being careful and wise about your decisions. A thirty year old could be too immature for a serious relationship and a fifteen year old could be wise beyond their years. Age has no claim on love. Emotional maturity is a different matter, something that doesn't grow with the body but rather with the life and memories. Wearing a thong might be something more attuned to physical maturity, but the concept is the same. If you're not mature enough, it doesn't matter how old you are. Our society puts way too much emphasis on age. In some cases it's vital, in others it varies far too much from person to person.

And that concludes today's questions. Yay. Bye.