Tuesday, September 26, 2017

Wow

Wow. It’s been a few months. As you all know, school has started up again. Not a piece of cake, but it’s not to bad. I’m planning on doing a script for a mini documentary, which I’ll try to post on here. It’ll be a while, but I wanted to let you know. We’re not dead. It’s just me left posting, but we’re not dead.

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Summer

Hi everyone. I'm surprised nobody's posted on here yet. I hate to say it, but I miss a few of you. You are my friends. Nobody will read this, other than Ms. Spengler and I. Only I really remember this. So. My summer has been fun. Rome, New York was exciting. My dad and I started watching Game Of Thrones. Life's been good. If the former 6th graders are reading this, then good luck. 7th grade is hard. This is just me rambling. Sorry. See you all soon.

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Annador

Hi! For those of you who read Annador, I'd like to say that I've officially moved to my other blog, called Annador, where I have published chapter seven. Please go check it out, and leave comments, I love to hear predictions and opinions. Thanks!
Annador

Monday, May 22, 2017

The Path


We have walked the same path for a many of time but now me think it fit for you and I to travel apart 
Through the twist and curves we have stayed together 
And through the ups and downs we've never gotten lost, but now me think it fit for you and I to go our separate ways.
For we have had side paths on our path, but never a fork in the road.
Here it is, the fork in the road some would go left, others right, but we must part now,  for I think it fit to go left and you think fit to go right. Here we are. 
Go the way you want and I shall go the way I think fit. 
We may run and bump into one another,  but never going down the same path. 
As we part we gaze until no longer, when the bush is to thick.
We shall never run back to the fork, but
Bob our friend will pick up the fork.

Friday, May 19, 2017

The Truth

Burns run along my body
Scars to compete with them
They aren't all physiological,
But a lot of them are

Words and phrases leave
Me beaten up and shaken
Those hurtful sounds
Light a fire up inside me

As a disappointment though
They don't make the blaze roar
Enough to stop them

I want it-
NO
I need it to stop

Just like an inferno
They feed on my anger
And scorch me down to crisp

Why can't they leave me alone?


Why do I let the smoke get in my eyes?

It repeats and repeats
Until little old me
Is a shrunken pile of ashes
Waiting to be blown

Away

This is the life of some people
Unnecessary words are used to beat them
Black and blue

Timid kids tell everybody
I'm fine 
Or
I'm okay

Check their smile
And maybe even
Their
Wrists
Too

Reading this you're probably thinking
Well, she's depressing

This is the truth

Don't learn to live with it
Learn to hate these bullying acts so much
You feel as if they are happening to

You 

To make sure this isn't happening to anyone 
Be sure you aren't the cause of their problems

My friends (not all of them)

Piper: She is always there for me, and is really funny. She is always so hyper and cool. She always knows how to lighten up the mood.

Addie: I am her friend because she is always so nice to be around. I love her sense of humor.

Ashley: Ashley is so nice to everyone and always knows what to say when I am upset. She is a always there when I feel like nobody else is. She is amazing.

Keanna: Keanna is an interesting and mysterious person. I love her sense of humor because she always makes puns out of everything. She is so random and cool.

These four friends of mine are some of my best friends because they have been at my side ever since the first day we were friends.

Mixed Breeds Chapter 1: Time to Say Goodbye

Chapter 1
Time to say Goodbye

      Nala stared at a grizzled family photo, her parents animated and joyous, but yet their faces forever frozen. The more Nala stared at her father's carrot-colored hair and her mother's blissful cheeks, the more she hated her existence. Her guardians were forever jaded. Her elder sister, more lost than Nala, tore the photo from her palms. She ripped the photo into a rife of crumbs.

     " Why?" Nala asked to her sister.

     " They're gone. " Her sister spoke. Speechless, Nala's sister inched over to the exit of the room. As soon as she was away, Nala picked up the many pieces of paper and took them outside. For a moment, she stood there with the papers locked in her fist. Then she unleashed the picture from her hands. The air took it away from her. She looked as the pieces drifted away into a better existence. Nala started to pace way from home. She wasn't thinking, but she kept going foot after foot. It didn't hurt, well, not anymore than it hurt inside. She knew that her choice, a foolish one, to flee her home that she knew all through her childhood was wrong, but she didn't stop. All Nala had was a scythe, a small memento from her dead father, tied like always to her back. The sun began to set over an empty hill that was behind a range of mountains. She decided to rest on that hill for the night, Nala wasn't going back.

      When Nala got to the tip of the hill, she looked down, surprised to see a glimpse of a town, she never knew had existed. The maps she used back at her home never had this landmark. Then, she really knew she was far from home. She decided to take rest in that town as she tread to the gleaming city. Soon after arriving, people looked at her. Alienated, Nala looked at the ground and not to others. She saw a deserted alley with a trash can. She walked, not frightened by the darkness that she was oh so familiar with. Slowly walking, She sat by the garbage, having no need to close her eyes to have peace, because the alley was quiet. Nala felt the rhythm of her breathing. She stopped for a second. A sound of breathing kept going. She saw a figure, a man. " Who's there?" The voice asked, frightened.

      "I'm Nala, I fled from my old home." She continued," my parents are dead and I can't stand to live with my sister, what is your name sir?"

The man stepped closer," I'm Constant." The man was barely taller than Nala, Nala looked close to his face. Pale, his hair was a light indigo, his eyes were grey, it struck Nala like lightning, he was blind.

" Do you have a home Constant?" She asked.

" No, my oldest memory is here, in this ally," Constant explained. Nala was watching him closely. He started to physically float, as if he was an air ship. He was still close to the ground. His shape started to shift. His ears grew to a point and his face grew long. Nala couldn't believe it, he was a mixed breed, of human and wolf. She had heard of it, but it had never come true.

" Umm," Nala whispered.

" I know,"he said," every time I relax my bones people tell me I float, and turn into a mixed bread, I can sense it in you."

" What?" Nala interrupted.

" You are a mixed breed too," he said," A fox, I don't know why, but I can feel it in you Nala."

" I feel it in you too, but your a wolf." Nala said curiously.

" A mixed breed could be anything." Constant stated.

" I need some rest. " Nala admitted.

" I do as well, we can talk more in the morning," Constant agreed. Nala forced her eyes closed. She found it hard to rest. She couldn't stop her flying thoughts. She told her mind to shut up and managed to get some sleep. When she woke up she saw Constant with two pieces of bread laid out on a towel.

" How did you do that?" She asked.

" I see your up, well I don't technically SEE you are up, but-"

Nala stopped him," I get it, really though, how did you do that?"

" I smelled fresh bread, followed it, and stole it. What do you want from me?" He said.

" Wow," Nala said. She ate a piece. She saw Constant having trouble reaching his bread, she took his hands and led them to the bread.

" Thanks," he said, embarrassed.

" Nothing to be ashamed of," Nala teased.

" I want you to transform," Constant continued," just relax your bones and let this spirit that you feel grabbing on to you take hold."

" Easier said than done," Nala whined.

" Do it," he forced.

      Nala laid down. She felt nervous, because she felt something take ahold of her. She forced herself to relax. She stood back up. She leaned down to see black, white and red paws, like the ends of her hair. She was on four legs.

" I did it!" She exclaimed. She walked over to a puddle where she saw her reflection. Orange as she expected, because of her red hair. The ends of her tail, ears, and paws were red, black, and white. A replica of herself, but in the form of a fox?

" Excellent!" Constant exclaimed.

" Have you met any other mixed breeds?" Nala asked.

" Yes," Constant spit out," Two friends," Noah and Ajax."

" Where are they now?" Nala asked.

" No clue," Constant sighed.

" We need to become strong," Nala stated," We should train together and battle each other for practice."

" Deal," Constant agreed," from now on we are sworn enemies."

"Constant, do you have a weapon of choice yet?" Asked Nala.

" No, my powers are the wind, I can control its direction and its movement, I am the wind," Constant said high and mighty.

" Well... I have a scythe," Nala said.

" You seem like the kind of rare person to have a scythe," Constant supported.

" Sure," Nala rolled her eyes.

" Really though," Constant smiled.

" Compared to controlling the wind a scythe seems foolish," Nala bickered.

" Not when the one controlling the wind is blind," Constant added.

" True," Nala finally agreed.

" We need to find a real place to stay," Nala said after a long silence.

" I had money, a lot as a matter of fact, I don't know how I got it, but I lost it a while ago," Constant said, ashamed.

" Umm, that's alright, I'm sure I can find it for you Constant, stay here," Nala suggested.

" Alright," Constant agreed," come back here if you find it, if not, come back in three or so hours. Nala walked out of the oblivion of an ally, almost blinded by the bright, vivid sun. Her eyes finally adjusted to the glaring light. She scanned the warm streets of the town that was called the Eastern town. Nala previously lived in the South town. Once again people had their eyes fixed on Nala. Quickly, she decided she needed a bath. She walked to a nearby public gym she opened the doors to the vast room. She saw strong people pushing weights from their chest. Strangely, one man seems to strike Nala. He had red and black hair and Crimson eyes. She could sense the spirit that she felt in Constant and herself. She ignored this fueling energy. She walked over to the girls locker room and showers. There were a few girls looking at Nala. Luckily Nala thought to leave her scythe in the ally with Constant. She took off the heat of her clothes. It had been almost a week since Nala bathed. She was unpleasant with her appearance. She washed away her filth and grime. She used up the whole bar of soap and figured it was a good time to stop. She dried herself off and put back on her clothes, a red tank top, black sweatpants, and a red sweatshirt. Nala picked up the shabby and old hair drier they put out for girls like Nala. Her red hair was down she looked at the black, white, and red ends of her hair. For some reason, she hated her hair down. Nala thought it made her look weak. She tied back her long fine hair leaving out her side bangs. Feeling clean, Nala walked out of the GYM, less people looked at her, but Nala still got the occasional glance.

      Nala looked in other streets, no sign of any sort of wallet or money clip. Dissatisfied, Nala walked back to the ally that she spent her first night and met Constant.

"Hey," Nala sighed.

" Any luck?" Constant asked, already knowing the answer.

"No," Nala said, trying not to upset him.

Nala sat next to the garbage can. She barely glanced around the area. Before she did a double take, a wallet was underneath the dumpster. Excited, she pulled out the wallet.

" Found it, it was right here the whole time, dummy," Nala teased.

" What do you expect me to do? Look for it?" Constant joked," how much money do I have?" Nala opened up a compartment of his wallet.

" Geese dude, you have a credit card and a slip from the bank that says your balance on your card is 332,000 dollar debt, how did you just forget about something like that?" Nala asked puzzled.

" Oh yeah, that's right I won 300,000 dollars in a bet. The bet was if I could beat Ajax in a playful fight I got 1,000,000 dollars. I won. He under estimated me. He was so alarmed I actually won, that he is still trying to pay off what he promised me. So almost every month he adds about 1,000 dollars to my bank account," Constant explained.

" He was a mixed bread, that's right," Nala continued," what was this Ajax guy like anyways?"

" He was strong, he is a mixed breed with a wolf and I don't really know what the details are of his face or whatever you call it, because well, I can't see, but people tell me his eyes are an alarming Crimson," Constant answered. Nala had a flash back to when she was at the GYM and saw that guy with the red and black hair and the astonishing eyes. She sensed the presence of another spirit inside him.

" Earth to Nala," Constant snapped.

" Sorry, it's just that I think I saw Ajax it the gym where I showered," Nala explained," by the way, how do you stay so clean if you never shower?"

Constant shrugged," Magic."

" I want to learn that kind of magic," Nala laughed.

Constant always wore the same things and looked the same, His hair, light indigo, his eyes, grey obviously, a grey shirt and brown pants. In that way, he and Nala were similar. Ordinary people would look at Nala and Constant and see two completely different people, she had a theme of fire and red, and constant was more ice and blue, but what would fire be with no ice, and what would ice be with no fire? All these thoughts flew through Nala's broad mind. Once again, Constant had to snap Nala out of her state of mind.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

Her

I can't stop thinking about her.
Her perfect face.
Those lips: so perfect.
Her eyes: sparkling blue.
She was with me but now she isn't.
She jumped...
and left me all alone.


A Witch Burning

The gravel crunches softly under my worn rain boots as I walk along the path. Dark, misty shadows make it difficult to see my destination. I trudge on with only the sound of my footsteps reaching my ears. The tears that run down my face are silent and almost unnoticeable. Finally, I stumble over a beam of wood. It indicates that I only have five paces remaining until I reach my mothers fresh grave. Kneeling down I suddenly feel an overpowering presence; I move the next five paces on my hands and knees. Feeling the cold stone of my mothers headstone, I run my fingers along the engraved words, "I love you mommy". I lay the fresh flowers down and drape myself over the stone.
I hug it as if it is the loving bodice of my beloved mother. Almost as if she was here, I feel her. But she isn't, and I have to remember that she never will be again. My young arms can never embrace her again. I have to cherish the feeling of the last hug she gave me.

I lay in a shivering silence for a time, letting the wind blow my tangled hair. Around midnight I decide to begin my journey home. I get up slowly because even the thought of someone seeing me at her grave just days after her passing is unthinkable. As I stand, I see the unmistakable light of a flashlight. The moon now shines brightly enough for me to find a tree to hide behind. "Everyone still visiting must evacuate...", says the guard. The rest of his sentence may have been beneficial to hear but the wind muffles it so all I hear is the thunderous gusts. Leaving the grave yard, the guard disappears and I begin to peak out from the safety of my newly found hiding spot, the tree. I take one last look at the starry and now clearly, moonlit sky and that's when I see it.

The sudden urge to run overtakes me. It isn't an instinct talking to me as much as it is my mother telling me to take flight. The deafening roar of bomber planes fills my ears. The lights and the noise are just to much for my young mind to comprehend. I run. I run so suddenly that I forget all about the wooden beam. The toe of my rubber boot catches on a splintering piece of the wood and the ground seems to rush towards my face and give it an unwelcoming high five. Slowly, I push myself up and touch my hand to my nose. A soft trickle of blood warms my hand and I pull it away quickly. I take off running again this time in a search of a closer shelter. Luckily, I find an old, stone grave house and rush to the rusted door. With one kick it swings open and I scurry down the stairs. With a sudden boom the ground shakes and I am thrown off my feet onto the cold stone. Something hard falls on my head and then, just as a trickle of blood reaches my eye, everything goes black.

Eventually a small light forms and as it gets nearer a figure becomes visible. Then I realize something very strange. The figure belongs to my mother. Rushing toward her, I reach out to hug her. Her mouth doesn't move or open, but her graceful voice tells me that if I touch her I will be brought to her and never be able to live again. I want to stay with her, but I can't deny her wishes. I don't know how she makes me go, but eventually I turn and creep back into the blackness. I turn back to have one last look at my mother, but when I look her figure has faded. I am scared. Scared of the dark, the bombs, and the fact that I had just seen a ghost.

Some time later light begins to fill my eyes and I begin to make out the shape of the cold stone grave house I fell into. On a nearby post that had fallen in the bombing, a flyer was attached.

It read: " IMPORTANT NOTICE! All people that can see ghosts or spirits are now considered witches! All witches are to be burned or killed in any way a law maker sees fit. If a witch is found please report her immediately."

A chill runs down my spine as if a stream of ice water has been poured down the back of my ripped pajamas.

An undying flower

Here I lie
Life blooms around me
Beauty, scarred by an undying flower.
Lives, so fragile, rise and fall
Beauty quickly turns to ashes
Made all the more lovely by destruction
Is there, then, such beauty
In an undying flower?
The wind blows, then fades away
Mighty trees grow and sway, but they, too, fall
The undying flower watches, ironically placed in a memory.
When life fades it is replaced by a memory
A weak and bendable thing
Do I, then, remember my wife?
United in death, our wishes were honored
But disrespected in life
Our lives marked by an undying flower
But does it hold such charm
As a single mortal rose
Which from its corpse, life grows?
Or should I be marked
By an unliving, undying flower
Long after I've decayed?
Should I be commemorated
Tied to humanity by a counterfeit bond?
Is it such an honor, then
To be marked by an undying flower?

The Seeing Glasses`

All my life they were blind


                            went around with no purpose

stumbling with every step


                                             ghosting the longing words in the November air,
thinking too much about what to change



the rope was burned into their skin

   
                              until they let go



                and allowed themselves to fall

Dyson Sphere



"The Empire wants you and your construction fleet to create a Dyson Sphere around the M class star Kolbrek #50821475, otherwise known as Bjorn. You should meet no resistance in that system." High General Alder commanded, I followed, because mutiny is capital.

This system is not very interesting. It's your run-of-the-mill system with gas giants and rocky pebbles. There is no way this is inhabited.

Day 458, Dyson Sphere: 25% Complete.

Someone didn't do their job correctly, my chief Communications officer ran onto the bridge, yelling "Sir! We just got a message from Planet #72593-BCAR, dubbed Terek, it appears that it has sentient life!"

"WHAT!? What did they say?"

"It's not in any known language, but we can decrypt it. It says, 'Hello, we are the people of the United States of America, and we would like to know, what are you doing with our star?'"

"Get general Alder on the line" the screen sparks to life, with a groggy general staring at it.

"What do you want?"

"Sorry sir, but it appears that there's a civilization in this system."

"Impossible, we scanned that system years ago!"

"Yes, but a quick scan shows that their still in the country phase of civilization, they have a small station in low orbit and it can only hold crew members."

"Contact them and put the Dyson Sphere on hold."

"Yes sir." The screen died.

"Send them a message."

"Yes sir."

Hello, people of Earth! We are a construction fleet from the Empire of Skervann. We were building a Dyson Sphere around your star. We didn't know you were here because our scanners  pick up stage 2 and up civilizations, and you haven't even reached stage 1. Our commander will land in the city of Houston, we wish for a long and prosperous relationship between us.

"Sir, General Alder is on the line!"

"Patch him through." the screen sparked to life with a loud thunk

"New orders from the higher ups. You are to deconstruct the Dyson Sphere, and send an ambassador. More fleets are on the way. We will share our technology. Our new goal is to make them a stage 2 civilization within 10 years." The screen flickered dead. Finally, the Skervann will have a friend in this gladiatorial arena we call the galaxy.

Idea from the subreddit r/writingprompts

Colton Little

There is somebody in my class named Colton and he is identical to Chicken Little. Just to let you know, he gave me permission to post this. Anyways, he is small like Chicken Little and he has glasses. Although the glasses aren't the same, they're close enough. As you will see in pictures, they make the same facial expression as well!

Wouldn't you agree? That's only one picture out of three that I have. Everything down to their eyebrows are the same.
 They both have the same facial expression as well.  Chicken Little and Colton are both tiny and slowly developing. The older both of them get, the less they change.
They both always wear shorts and a short sleeve shirt as well!

I don't know what you think, but comment below if you think they are alike or not.

Book Review: Golden Compass

The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman is a great book if you intricate and deeper stories. It is the first book in the trilogy His Dark Materials followed by The Subtle Knife and The Amber Spyglass. It has a great resolution and while this book can be slow at times, it's well worth the wait. It follows the tale of Lyra, an orphan in Oxford who's somewhat-monotonous life at Jordan College is interrupted by a visit from her uncle. Her uncle is a daring, handsome adventurer who gets her wrapped up into a new life. While most seems ordinary in this book, there's more than meets the  eye.

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

My Animal Rant

Elephants going down one by one in the thousands. People take their tusks and leave the rest. They watch from their windows, not taking action in trying to save these amazing animals. Tigers being taken for their pelt, sea animals being killed by our trash that is carelessly floating around in the sea. And we get heartbroken over things like, "My boyfriend doesn't text me," or "I didn't get enough likes".

We should be worrying about everybody's world, not just ours.

Annador chapter six

An awkward silence enveloped the two prisoners. Frowning, Lana observed Willow. When she first saw her, she immediately recognized her, but she didn’t know from where. At hearing her name, it all clicked. The tattered, yet still recognizable silk dress, the proud stare, the striking familiarity. She was Willow Rose Blackwood, heir to Annador.  The realization had been jarring. Until then, Lana had firmly clutched at the hope that her kingdom could somehow be mended. Seeing Willow imprisoned had crushed her fragile faith. Suppressing a disheartened sigh, Lana slid to the ground, pulling her long, mousey hair back into a braid.

Lana was so tired, it felt as if her eyelids were made of lead, slowly being dragged shut. She kept her eyes open, though, trying to seem cool and collected for the princess of her realm. Willow returned Lana’s stare, her bruised face emotionless. Her eyes, though, were questioning, and their gaze made Lana uncomfortable. Shifting her weight from her left side, she watched, noticing the spattering of bruises that colored the princess’s arms and face a variety of yellows and purples. The more she saw, the angrier she became.

Her brown eyes snapping open, Lana looked wildly around at the monotonous, stern room. Wincing, she closed her eyes, remembering the guard, and Willow. Willow! She looked back at a battered form on the floor, and caught her breath. Scrutinizing the body, she barely made out the small rising and falling of her chest. With a relieved sigh, she sat back, watching the princess sleep. Mindlessly, she gazed at the girl, her thoughts drifting outside the cell, and farther away, to Annador, and the night she was taken. She remembered the fires, the terrified scream of a mother being dragged from her child. That night, she had woken to a room full of smoke, which stung her eyes and burned her throat with every breath. The thundering crash as her door broke down had terrified her, sending her numb with fear. She ran, of course, clutching her daughter, December’s, hand and crawling out the window. They had just made it out of the city before Lana saw the soldiers.

A groan brought Lana back to reality, and she quickly noticed the tear slipping down her cheek. Miserably, she wiped it away, and turned her gaze back to Willow. She was slowly rising to a sitting position, her face to the wall. Lana watched her, admiring the beautiful blue of her dress.

“How long have you been here?”  At the sound of Lana’s voice, Willow, stiffened, and turned to face her, clearly in pain. When she saw Lana, she relaxed, but her voice was cold when she spoke.

“A few days.” Lana nodded, and looked away, noticing the shadows cast from the grate overhead. They shifted, sending lines cascading across the pale wall. With a sigh, she shifted her sore legs, brushing matted hair out of her eyes. Not wanting to press the girl, she stayed silent, waiting for Willow to break the silence. Finally, Willow looked at Lana, her gaze empty.

“Why are you here?” She asked, her arms crossed.

“Same reason as you, I guess. Soldiers? The fact that our kingdom was taken over by the King of Ondalinia?” Willow’s eyes widened.

“I, I hadn’t realized. How many others were taken?”

“Thousands. Few escaped.” Lana felt her throat begin to close up, and clamped her mouth shut. Willow, however, paid no attention, instead, she asked,

“How many soldiers were there?”

“Too many to count,” Lana said, her thoughts drifting back to December. Willow pursed her lip, her gaze fixed on Lana. Finally, she murmured,

“We need to get out of here.” Lana’s eyes snapped to her.

“Yeah, we do. Any ideas?” Willow furrowed her brow, then replied,

“Well… I guess.” Lana thought back to the way the had been brought to this cell, the stairway, the coded door, the grate over the huge fireplace. It was so carefully planned, so inescapable.

 “But it would be risky.”

“Riskier than sitting in here waiting for a death sentence?” Lana snapped back. Willow groaned.

“Yeah. Ok. It might take a while, though.” Lana nodded, and leaned back, watching leaves flick over the grate above her head. She peered through them, and noticed something unnaturally black through the foliage. Straining her eyes, she staggered to her feet, struggling to make out what it was.

“Willow,” She muttered. “Come look at this?” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the princess stand, and limp towards her.

“What?”

“Look…” Lana pointed, “at that.” As Willow walked towards her, the thing moved, pointing at her. A tiny spot of blue reflected on its lense. Willow gasped.

“It’s a security camera! Of course. Do you think it can hear us?”

“No, that looks like glass behind the bars. Plus, they don’t need to hear us, they just need to know where we are and what we’re doing.” Lana explained, tearing her eyes from the camera to look at the girl. Willow nodded. “But, if we talk about anything, like, escaping, we need to face away from the camera, to make sure they don’t try to read our lips.” Willow nodded quickly, then sat down, still watching the camera.

“You know, this could be useful.” Willow remarked, glancing at Lana.

“How so?”

Lana lay on the hard floor, looking up at the leaves, and eventually glancing at the camera, which was concealed behind them. Suppressing a small grin, she whispered, “We’re coming. Don’t worry, December. We’re coming.”

This story will be continued in chapter seven of Annador. Thanks for reading!!

*Author's note; For those of you who actually care, I am planning on continuing to post Annador over the summer. Also, I have created a new blog called Annador, where I will be publishing more chapters once I write them. You can find it at http://annadorerw.blogspot.com. I will be publishing chapter 1-6 first so bear with me please! Thanks!*

Graveyard Chpt. 1

The gravel crunches softly under my worn rain boots as I walk along the path. Dark, misty shadows make it difficult to see my destination. I trudge on with only the sound of my footsteps reaching my ears. The tears that run down my face are silent and almost unnoticeable. Finally, I stumble over a beam of wood. It indicates that I only have five paces remaining until I reach my mothers fresh grave. Kneeling down I suddenly feel an overpowering presence; I move the next five paces on my hands and knees. Feeling the cold stone of my mothers headstone, I run my fingers along the engraved words, "I love you mommy". I lay the fresh flowers down and drape myself over the stone.

I hug it as if it is the loving bodice of my beloved mother. Almost as if she was here, I feel her. But she isn't, and I have to remember that she never will be again. My young arms can never embrace her again. I have to cherish the feeling of the last hug she gave me.

I lie in a shivering silence for a time, letting the wind blow my tangled hair. Around midnight I decide to begin my journey home. I get up slowly because even the thought of someone seeing me at her grave just days after her passing is unthinkable. As I stand, I see the unmistakable light of a flashlight. The moon now shines brightly enough for me to find a tree to hide behind. "Everyone still visiting must evacuate...", says the guard. The rest of his sentence may have been beneficial to hear but the wind muffles it so all I hear is the thunderous gusts. Leaving the grave yard, the guard disappears and I begin to peak out from the safety of my newly found hiding spot, the tree. I take one last look at the starry and now clearly, moonlit sky and that's when I see it.

The sudden urge to run overtakes me. It isn't an instinct talking to me as much as it is my mother telling me to take flight. The deafening roar of bomber planes fills my ears. The lights and the noise are just to much for my young mind to comprehend. I run. I run so suddenly that I forget all about the wooden beam. The toe of my rubber boot catches on a splintering piece of the wood and the ground seems to rush towards my face and give it an unwelcoming high five. Slowly, I push myself up and touch my hand to my nose. A soft trickle of blood warms my hand and I pull it away quickly. I take off running again this time in a search of a closer shelter. Luckily, I find an old, stone grave house and rush to the rusted door. With one kick it swings open and I scurry down the stairs. With a sudden boom the ground shakes and I am thrown off my feet onto the cold stone. Something hard falls on my head and then, just as a trickle of blood reaches my eye, everything goes black.

Eventually a small light forms and as it gets nearer a figure becomes visible. Then I realize something very strange. The figure belongs to my mother. Rushing toward her, I reach out to hug her. Her mouth doesn't move or open, but her graceful voice tells me that if I touch her I will be brought to her and never be able to live again. I want to stay with her, but I can't deny her wishes. I don't know how she makes me go, but eventually I turn and creep back into the blackness. I turn back to have one last look at my mother, but when I look her figure has faded. I am scared. Scared of the dark, the bombs, and the fact that I had just seen a ghost.

Some time later, light begins to fill my eyes and I begin to make out the shape of the cold stone grave house I fell into. On a nearby post that had fallen in the bombing, a flyer was attached.

It reads: " IMPORTANT NOTICE! All people that can see ghosts or spirits are now considered witches! All witches are to be burned or killed in any way a law maker sees fit. If a witch is found please report her immediately."

A chill runs down my spine as if a stream of ice water has been poured down the back of my ripped pajamas.

Must be Hell

The light. I can see it. I can see it at the end. Is this death? I feel nothing. I see nothing. Nothing but the light. *sigh* I wish to touch it. I wish to hold it. I wish to be it. This must be hell. I'm not moving any closer. What have I done to offend you God? Do I really deserve this? Must sit. Must stop. To tired. Can't stop. Can't sleep. This. Must. Be. Hell.


*Authors note*
Alright. So I got this from a really happy picture. But my brain was just like - hahaha. No. Happy? Haha. That's funny. No. We must make it sad. How? Oohhh like this. Let's make the picture hell!! Weeeee! - Why brain? Why??!!

Rose Fitzpatrick (Graveyard Writing)

1870-1949

Rose Fitzpatrick
    I wonder what her story is. She must have been a lovely lady. Her life must have been hard when she lost her brother Thomas back in 1920. They were the bestest of friends. She lived on and missed him every day. She never "got over it", but she lived on. Her life was rough and then she met a wonderful man. They spontaneously fell in love. It was an instant bond. A hint of love that could not be broken. They lived a very joyous life together.
  One day, Rose got very ill. They urgently rushed to the hospital and got horrific news. Rose only had one year left until she would no longer live. They lived that last year together as best as they could. They spent it like they did as teens, gazing into each other's eyes.
   The day had come. Rose was gone. Gone. The word didn't seem true, but it was. Jack, her husband, couldn't bear life without her. He missed her so dearly. Each day Jack would bring a rose to her gravestone and talk with her. Jack was happy that she was in a better place now, probably running in fields of flowers. They were her favorite after all. He was happy that she no longer had to feel pain. A brilliant life they lived and will soon have a new life together in the fields of paradise.

Cemetery

I sit under the big willow tree...
just pondering.

I look to the right and see the grave of someone...
who was once mine.

I see the graves of others...
who are missed by many.

I notice people...
who once walked our Earth.

I find myself...
missing them too.

I sit under the big willow tree...
just pondering.

Who Knows?

Lovely birds singing
Beautiful trees swaying
Comforting wind blowing
Smelly flowers blooming

-what if-

Small grass tickling
Little bugs flying

-is our imagination-

-and-

Horrible creatures howling
Dark stalkers stalking

-is the truth-

Murderous monsters hiding
Captured souls dying

-beyond our lies-

-but-

Peaceful graves to evil below
Blue sky to fiery atmosphere
Cheerful friends to posing demons
Fluttering leaves to remains of before

-who knows?-

This is not a drill

 You sit in your seat writing about a woman who saved humanity, but her partner gets all the attention, when you hear a loud Beep ringing in your ear. You look up to see the lockdown light flashing. All the kids in the class move slowly to a corner without a care of what is going on. When you sit down on the cold stone floor, instead of the kids taking it seriously you hear people talking and laughing.


 While sitting on the floor, one of the students says, "We should've locked Mrs. K out of the room."  The whole class, but you, starts laughing at that comment.


 You sit there for a good five minutes when you hear the doorknob move. All your classmates start to get up thinking it was the principal coming to tell them that it was all a drill, when the door opens and a man dressed in black steps and starts to shoot.

Tuesday, May 16, 2017

Her Destiny



            She never realized growing up, that this would be her future. Never did she ever imagine this. How had it turned into this? How did it get so bad? She lived everyday in her own nightmare. How could she be blinded by hate? No one ever expected this, but it was her destiny. The pull of the trigger changed her life. Everything she had ever known was now no more. With an orange jumpsuit she sat, stripes all across her body. Bars blocked her escape. What's unimaginable to some, is now her life. And, it was once unimaginable to her and the people around her. Reality has been a shock, but that's what you get for breaking the law. Good or bad, she still did it. She saved many by destroying one. She just couldn't save herself.

The creature from somewhere else

     It sat alone and silent. I walked close to it, as I did I realized it had no face. I was terrified it was going to try something, maybe it would kill me, but nothing happened. It just stared, looked at me as if it could see me, maybe it had some strange sense I could not even fathom in my mind, or maybe it could hear me. I don't know. I reached out to touch it, but it moved away. Was it scared? I wasn't sure if I should just leave, or if I should just stand there and stare at the horrifying beast. It was dark and tall, it almost looked like a shadow, a deformed and melted shadow. I decided to leave the cabin I had found in the woods all those years ago, and now I was back.

     I was only fifteen when I first saw that thing. People said I was crazy, maybe I was, but I was determined to prove otherwise. So I brought a group of my closest friends, with cameras and flash lights. When we arrived, my friends were in shock that I didn't lie about the cabin. They were still skeptical about the whole monster thing, but we were here, and I was ready to prove to them I wasn't crazy.

     We walked into the cabin; it was darker than I remembered. Were we in the right place? was I crazy after all? did the whole thing just play out in my head? No, that couldn't be, I refused to believe it. Then, I saw it the creature from all those years ago. I had a sense of terror, but also happiness like I had befriended the beast I was so terrified of when I was young. We filmed it, we stayed for a while, my friends had the same first reaction to it as I did, but for me it was different, I felt it's happiness like it was excited  to know me again, to know I came back.

I felt I had a friend a true friend, but one that wasn't from this place called Earth.

The Stench

It was a sunny February day in the Utah Mesas, when we saw it.

An enormous, ancient, clouded cavern, in the face of the rocks. Slowly we approached as a dreadful stench flowed out. In one quick swoop we both made eye contact and covered our noses, but as we got closer and closer the stench became like a straight jacket, wrapping around us and not letting go. As we finally enter, we saw tools and chunks of pottery littered across the ground, but as we looked closer we saw human bones everywhere. We automatically assumed it was a Native American burial site, as the Mesas are covered in Native American ruins. However all the pottery, amulets, and wooden figures that would usually be there were gone. That's no surprise though, as that's pretty typical of grave robbers. With anger of the absolute disrespect some people have, we call tribal police.

After a couple hours they called back and said they sent some people up and that it was indeed a burial site. They also told us that the reason the smell was so rancid was because the grave was dug up only a couple hours before we stumbled upon the cave.

It's now been a couple months and the culprit still hasn't been caught.

The Eyes

I was just starting to doze off when I saw them. The eyes. From right outside my door. Silly little sister, she left her favorite doll outside my room. I got out of my warm, comfortable bed to turn off the light; as I did so the rag doll, better know as Amanda, disappeared. Must be late I told myself, even though inside my heart raced faster than Usain Bolt on steroids. I flicked off the light and spun on my heel when I saw them again. The eyes. Staring at me from my bed. She vanished, once again, as I turned on the light. At this point I didn't care how old I was, I was getting my parents down here. I screamed as loud as I could. No noise came out. Once again I spun like a dime to see Amanda shaking her head. She launched herself at me. Then I hit the floor. As I did so, I awoke from a terrible nightmare. I looked out my door to see Amanda. A smile a little more dramatic drawn across her face.

Courage

My father's grave up on that hill
Could have never been that still
My heart there skipped a beat
That moment yet, so bitter-sweet
Then up in the sky
My father's face did pry
He said,"My child, do not be discouraged
For I give thee COURAGE

Finding her

 I recently found an old photograph of my sweet little puppy; it was the day after we got her. She was tiny enough to fit under the coffee table in the main living room. She would have her tennis ball, just laying there and enjoying the attention she was getting. I never really understood the value of her life and how much she made mine better. Until she wasn't there........
                                                                                                 
  She wasn't there to brighten my day,
                                                     Welcome me home from a crappy day of school,
                                                                                                                                  To keep me warm and take up most of my bed,
                                              To run with,
                                                                   To cuddle with,
                                                                                            To enjoy the moment with.

  Now all I have is her toys, pictures of my sweet little bear cub, and the life-lines that I cling to.

Monday, May 15, 2017

Graveyard End-of-Year Musings, Part III

Part III.  Yes, sorry 4th block.  You get to be number three.  Bronze.  White Ribbon.  Lowest on the podium.

Here's number two. Silver. Red Ribbon.
Here's number one. Gold. Blue Ribbon.

Wait, how can you be number three with photos like these!?  (my sincerest apologies to those of you who couldn't make it.  It seems unfair, I know. We'll take another photo together, somewhere, soon.)



The truth is - you guys made the end of my day magical.  Every. Single. Day.  Fourth block is often dreaded by students and teachers alike.  We were lucky:  we had each other  air conditioning. Sometimes, too much.  Air conditioning and each other.



You're all already better writers than I was at your age.  I mean, have you actually read that poem I wrote at age 12?!  Sure, yeah, I did it in calligraphy (when I was a Senior in high school), which is pretty cool.  But the poem... it's nothing special.

But you know what?  Every time I read it, even now, it takes me back to that field trip, that hill, that valley, where I was sitting with my journal and my pen. That's the power of writing.  It's a memory keeper.

Keep your journals.  You never know when you might want to go back and have a look.  (or when you might need a poem to write for a calligraphy class when you're a Senior in high school). There are memories in there....

What impresses me most about you is that your writing has VOICE.  Voice is a thing that says, "Hey, this writing sounds like me." It means you can craft a good story, make us cry, make us think, make us scared, make us wonder.

Take that to the bank.  Make a living at it if you want to.  Write novels.  Edit other people's novels (yes, you can get paid for that). Write grants for organizations that do good in the world.  Be the one your employer wants to write up that report for the CEO.  Publish a chapbook. Write teleplays and screenplays and videogameplays.  Is there even a word for that yet?  No? Invent one.

And, of course, you don't have to "make a living at it".  You can also just play writing games for fun. Or enjoy writing in your spare time as a hobby. Some of you may end up writing only when you have to.  That's perfectly ok, too.

No matter what, it's still important to remember this: The pen is mightier than the sword. I know it's hard to believe some times.  We sure did live through some pretty interesting times politically this year.  I know your futures are uncertain (hence: post-apocalytic lit.), and there are things you don't understand, can't understand, shouldn't understand, about the world we live in.

But the world has Malala Yousafzi in it.  And you. And all manner of other people who are using their superpowers for good.  The pen will always, in the end, be mightier than the sword.

And it's in your hands.  Wield it.

To Mr. Noland and Ms. Knapp:  Look out, you got a writing army coming your way.









Earth Breaking

The forest was muted, like a lifeless ocean on a moist summers day. I lay there, looking up into the blue blank sky. Thinking about my leading day, thinking about the past of when the first day hit of the earth breaking. The world was shook so violently. The population died, including my entire family.

It was a normal summer's day. My dad and mom were off work. My brother and I were playing with the hose, splashing each other back and forth. While my mom in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes, watched my dad run after my wet dog, Spark, it hit. Just before my eyes.
A blur.
It seemed as though months passed before my eyes, but seconds skimmed the surface of my tears before I could process what had just happened... to the earth breaking.

I Remember

I remember… when we camped out in the living room and
set up all of the collectible trains on Christmas Day and
called road call every time we got in the car and
went to the ice cream shop just down the road and
we made flapjacks in the shape of our names and
had fun every time I was at your house and
you never told me you were going to leave me
that one day in September
Love You, Grandpa

A Little List

My version of "A Little List". It's rewritten every time, so this is how I write it.

As some day it may happen that a victim must be found,
I've got a little list.
I've got a little list.
Of society offenders who might well be underground, and whom never would be missed.
Whom never would be missed.

There's the Social Justice Warrior who says all are sexist,
All the people and helicopters who carry with them checklists,
The person who thinks that comedians are "Politically Incorrect",
I wish we could send them to an imperialistic sect. 
And the spoiler of "Game Of Thrones" who says, "It's not a twist."
They'd none of 'em be missed,
They'd none of 'em be missed.

He's got 'em on the list — he's got 'em on the list;
And they'll none of 'em be missed — they'll none of 'em be missed.

I've got Steve Harvey for messing up Ms. Universe
And the guy who said, "La La Land"- I've got him on the list.
We have the kid who uses a smart phone in the very worst,
Waving it around and making millions in a burst.
He never would be missed.
He never would be missed.
The Vegan who says in an enthusiastic tone,
"All people who eat meat should go and eat a phone",
And the little kid who does cartwheels in the middle of the gym,
Black Canary needs to go and sing her a hymn.
And the angry raaaaacist!
I don't think they'd be missed.
I'm not sure they'd be missed.


He has them on the list. He has them on the list.
I don't think they'd be missed. I'm sure they'd not be missed.

The person in their safe space that are too afraid to leave,
And the Anti-Constitution groups all Sovereign Citizenry,
I wish that a butcher would put them on the block and then grab the cleave.
All Neo-Nazis who really won't stay dead.
They'd none of them be missed,
They'd none of them be missed.
But it doesn't really matter who you put upon the list,
for they'd none of 'em be missed.
They'd none of them be missed.

You may put them on the list.
You may put them on the list,
For they'd none of them be missed.
They'd none of them be missed.











Despair

Alone, nothing to see, hear, smell
Nothing to do
All alone for there is nothing
Only darkness with a flash of light in the distance

Gone for Good

My thoughts start to whirl together, and my brain turns into its subconscious state as I think of the one I lost. The one I never thought I would lose. That one person I could trust, love and care for.

But now she's gone for good.

One instant she's there and the next, she's not. Forever gone, swept away by the light of life, and replaced by the darkness of death.

Her voice fades from my memory, never to be heard again. Her smile, never to be seen again. Her hand, never to be held again.

She never deserved what she got.

And here she is, not alive, but beneath my feet. I look at the headstone, engraved with her name and death date.

I slowly shrivel up inside, holding on to what I have left. But I don't have anything to hold, because she won't be coming back. My heart is broken, torn to pieces, aching for one last sight of her, but this time no bandaid can fix it, for she is gone.


Gone for good.

Cemetery

It's so sad knowing

It looks just like cement 
Square pieces of cement 
Although it's more 
It's the ones who once roamed 
They roamed where we live today 
They made us exactly who we are 
Maybe our parents 
Maybe our grandparents 
Maybe our great grandparents 
Maybe even our great great grandparents
So although they look just like a piece of cement—

                            Treat them with care 

Wednesday, May 10, 2017

Writing Tag

So Gray over at Writing Is Life tagged all of us from In Line For The Insane. I accept this challenge. Before I begin I tag Volpe from Life Of A Fox Lover as well as George A-aron and Christopher Gordon. So let's start. 


1. What Genres, Styles, and Topics do I write about?


I write philosophy, fiction, and rants. These are honestly the only things I write about often. I don't really know why I don't write other things. I just don't like it because it reminds me of the grim essence of reality. You can't see it but I just shrugged.

2. How long have I been writing? 

I have been writing for about five years. I started back in first grade, but I began writing for fun earlier this year. We're also required to do it for a grade, but now it's more of a fun project. 

3. Why do I write?


Because it is fun, writing can also help me release stress, and it really helps.
Especially after the stresses of everyday life.


4. When is the best time to write?

Whenever, wherever. Anytime I feel like it works. 

5. What Parts of Writing Do You Love? What Parts Do You Hate?

I love the rush of feeling good after publishing a post that took two hours to write, like my most recent two. I hate when somebody points out things while I'm working on stuff. I am like
Even late in the stages. This happened back in January. I had the most posts of anybody on the blog. Then somebody, I forget who, commented IRL on a post I was working on. This made me rage and delete all 17 of my previous posts. I regret this heavily. That I hate about writing.

6. How do I overcome writer's block?

By listening to music, especially Tribe Called Red.  It always get the creative juices flowing.
They always help me get past a clog in the pipe.

7. Am I working on anything?

Just kidding. I am working on a script for a movie. It's an adaptation of Undertale. I'm about 25 pages into it. It's real fun. I'm thinking of publishing what I have at the end of the year. I might not. I dunno.

8. What are my writing goals this year? 

To work hard as I possibly can and do my absolute best as well as publish at least 5 pieces. I've managed to double that so far. We have a few weeks left,so I'm hoping on a few more. Simple, I know, but it works.

Wow. That was surprisingly easy. There are the questions answered. Volpe, I hope you do this. You don't have to, but please try. Thanks everybody.


Monday, May 8, 2017

Through the Eyes of a Martian

A thousand feet standing. All look up. The sand soft and green swished around, then sealed, as did the orb silver and old. The feet turned and the light opened letting in the smudged image of man. The air stopped, as did the hum of voices. Nothing swayed.  All was still.  Then from the sand mountains far above the group,  a round tip of a barrel poked out with two green eyes staring at the target like a man staring at his friend filled with guilt. The white boot stepped forward to the marked place. The finger pulled and the eyes closed as the shame sped up and found its mark on the heart of the man.


  Ten years before........

Writing Tag

       Hi Gray, the writers on our blog are all very excited that you have tagged us. Let's get started!

What Genres, Styles, and Topics do you write about?

     I enjoy writing in all different ways, but I enjoy writing poems and short stories the most for many reasons. Poems give the freedom to express what I feel in an artistic and beautiful way, whereas short stories allow me to create characters and tell a longer and more detailed story. I enjoy writing stories that have mystical creatures, but also stories that could totally happen in real life. I like to write about all topics. Topics that have a lot of emotion are my favorite because they make people feel what I feel. I also like topics that make people think deeply.

How Long Have You Been Writing?

    I have been writing ever since I could write. I began to find a deeper interest in it when I was ten, but I have been writing since I was around 7.

Why Do You Write?

     I write because it gives me the opportunity to express my feelings through other characters. It gives me a place to have a make-believe world and share it. I also write just because I love it.

When is the Best Time to Write?

    The best time to write is when you feel inspired or are filled with ideas. It can be hard to write if you have nothing to write about. Write after you have done something awesome or really boring. Write when you have nothing to do or when you are outside and see pretty things. What I'm getting at is, write anytime you want. Any time is a good time to be writing.

How Do You Overcome Writer's Block?

     I usually just stop writing until I feel inspired.

Are You Working on Something at the Moment?

     Yes, I am working on a story called 24-hours. The first few chapters are under my label, Stella Carmina Rose, and I am working on the next chapters now. I am very excited about this piece of work and among all the many things I am working on it is my top priority.

What Are Your Writing Goals This Year?

    My writing goals are to get to a good place on 24-hours and to start writing in my personal journal more often. My most prominent goal is to just have fun with my writing while still making it sound cool.


I tag Jo NikeAutumn Emerson and Elena from Anything Novel Society. Also, thank you Gray for tagging us. Everyone should go check her out at Writing is Life

We Have Been Tagged

       Hi Gray,  I've noticed we have been tagged, thank you! If you have not noticed, I'm very excited. So, let's get started.

What Genres, Styles, and Topics Do You Write About?

Well, I don't really stick to a specific genre, but as of late I have been writing a lot of dramatic stories, like my series Rebecca's Diary. I also enjoy writing about past experiences and stories. Some hard genres for me to write are comedy because I don't find myself funny and poems because I never know how to get the point across in just rhymes.

How Long Have You Been Writing?


I've been writing for my entire life, but never seriously until this year. This year in my seventh grade class we started this blog which really motivated me to write.

Why Do You Write?

I write because it helps me think and work things out in my head. I also write because of deadlines, just kidding.

When Is The Best Time To Write.

This question can vary for many people, but for me it's in the middle of the day with
a lot of noise. It's probably because I've grown up in a big and noisy household.

What Parts Of Writing Do You Love? What Parts Do You Hate?

The parts of writing I love are probably making a plot. I like the plots because it makes me think and because I get so connected to the characters. The parts of writing I hate is finding synonyms probably because I'm really lazy.

How Do You Overcome Writers Block?

I overcome writers block by looking at pictures. They usually give me a character or an emotion for the plot.

Are You Working On Something At The Moment?

Yes I am working on some stuff at the moment including a poem and Rebecca's Diary Pt.3. I can't wait for you guys to see it.


What Are Some Of Your Writing Goals This Year?

I don't really have any writing goals, but I would like to write more in general. I would also like to write more comedy.

Time to tag someone, okay. Some people I want to tag are River Lee from our blog and Naomi Wordsmith from Write On.












The JUDGE

                                                          Pompous Brows

                                 Sharp Upturned Nose
                                                  
                                                                             Jet Black Suit
                                                     
                                                          Matched For His

                                        Stone Face

                                                                             This Was The
                                                                   Day

                                      Filled With Regret

                                                                            The Day I

                                                               Laughed

The Once Boy


There was once a boy who dreamed of flying




Told to keep those thoughts away

Told to lock them into the abyss

For " safe keeping " they would say 

" Whats hidden inside can't be missed"

The wings stolen till late May

The truth hidden with a sharp hiss

For " you are but a single stray

Whats inside you are to diss"

Why can't he feel the ocean spray

Why should he be told to hide in mist




There was once a boy who dreamed of escaping 

Adventure, The adventure begins

A young infant sat alone in an old, unstable, basket. This young child was abandoned... no name, no home, and no love. It didn't cry though... no screaming, no whining, no crying. Soon someone found the child, and didn't take it in.

This isn't a fairytale.

This person, Samantha Smith, notified the police and left. The police arrived and took the child to an orphanage where they took her in.

It had been ten years since that fateful night on the streets. Ten years old, almost eleven. The child, Kristine, had been adopted multiple times. First, there was the  Thompsons, who fought constantly about her until finally giving her up. Then, there were the Weavers, who despised her, because as soon as she showed up, they had nothing but bad luck. Now she lives with the Thomases ,who are kind and loving, but since Kristine has had such a hard past, she has a hard time trusting her new family.

Kristine sat in her room after being sent home from school early because she was suspended which was the third time this month. Her parents were very upset with her, but understood and so did the school. That is why they continued to let her go to school there. When her parents got home they spoke to her, "Kristine we are very concerned about you. We—"

There was a large crash. Then there was long silence.

Sirens sounded. There was screaming and fighting. Kristine ran. She ran far and fast until she couldn't run anymore. She didn't know what happened; all she knew was her dad yelled run and so she did. When she finally stopped she was outside the city, she was scared and confused. Something happened, something bad but she didn't know what. She heard a voice; the voice came from an old man in strange clothes. The man said, "Kristine you need to go. You will die if you don't." Kristine asked, "Who are you? Why would I die and where will I go?" The man just stared for a moment then informed Kristine that she was his granddaughter and that she could trust him. He let her know that
there was a sanctuary two miles south of here and they would accept her there.

So she set off on an adventure that was about to begin.

Hatchet Man


      There were warnings all over campus about a Hatchet Man who supposedly abused and killed a woman in Bloomington.  All the girls were warned to walk in pairs and to stay in brightly lit areas if they had to go out at night.


The sophomore and her roommate were staying in the empty dorm over Thanksgiving break, since both their families were out of the country. They'd grown very bored as day followed boring day and night followed boring night.  Tired of staying inside every night for fear of the Hatchet Man, the sophomore's roommate suggested they have dinner at the local bar, she agreed.


The two women had lingered longer than anticipated, and it was almost midnight when the sophomore, more than a little drunk, decided to walk back to the dorm. Her roommate was busy flirting with the bartender, so she headed into the dark, silent streets alone.  The sophomore had forgotten all about the Hatchet Man warnings. It wasn’t until she took a shortcut through a dark, creepy alley that she remembered there was a desperate murderer on the loose.


The sophomore shivered, feeling suddenly sober and very much alone. Feeling as if hostile eyes were peering out at her from every menacing shadow and darkened doorway she quickened her pace. Was that heavy breathing she heard behind her? Were those footsteps walking in time with her own?


The sophomore broke into a run; heart pounding fiercely, sure that someone was following her. Darting onto the college campus, she zig-zagged through the buildings and flung herself, panting, into the dorm. She pounded up three flights of stairs, down the hall and slammed into her room, locking the door behind her. It was only then, leaning against the door with her heart racing, that she started to feel foolish. There was no sound from the hallway. No footsteps, no heavy breathing. No hatchet breaking through the wood of the door. She'd been a fool.


The sophomore staggered to the bathroom to wash up for the night, leaving the door locked behind her. She kept glancing in the mirror to make sure that everything was secure. The scene in the mirror was normal. And there was no sound in the empty dormitory. Everything was just fine, she told herself. Then she remembered that her roommate was still at the bar. She didn't want her roommate to walk home alone, so she called the bar and asked the manager if he would arrange for her roommate to be brought home in a taxi. The music in the background was loud, and she wasn't sure if the manager understood her request, but at least she'd tried

The sophomore curled up in bed with the reading lamp on, determined to wait up for her roommate. But the combination of heavy drinking and her earlier fright sent her into a deep sleep almost at once, and she did not awaken until the sun came pouring in the window, early the next morning.


She woke with a hangover and rolled over, trying not to be sick in the bed.  When she looked across the room, she realized that her roommate wasn't in the bed on the far wall. In fact, it looked as if her bed had not been slept in at all! She rolled to her feet, heart pounding with dread. Maybe her roommate had spent the night in the lobby? Her roommate had done that once before when out partying until the wee hours of the morning, saying it was too much trouble to climb three flights of stairs.

With trembling hands, the sophomore unlocked the door and wrenched it open in search of her roommate. The unmistakable, faintly metallic scent of blood smashed into her nostrils as the door swung open. That was her only warning before her shocked eyes saw blood spattered all over the walls and floor of the third-floor hallway. She screamed in terror, leaping backward away from the partially decapitated body of her roommate, which lay dead at her feet. Her throat was slit from end to end and blood pooled under her dead body. The nails on her outstretched hand were torn and splintered where they had scratched desperately at the wooden door.

A black shadow lay across her roommate’s body. She looked up in a daze, her gaze following the black shadow to its source. Embedded in the window frame near the entrance to the staircase was a bloodstained hatchet, outlined in the light of the rising sun.  


Wow

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