Snow Day

Layer, layer, layer after layer

A human burrito is born

Kisses aimed between my hat and scarf

The front door is opened

White

White all around

The first step in the fresh, packing snow

Crunch, crunch, crunch

Simultaneous crunches

More human burritos join you

A hill

Perfectly untouched

Picture perfect

You flop backward into the perfection

You are followed by  the human burritos

Falling snowflakes greet each other at the tip of your nose

You sit up

Icy fingers slide down you neck

Down, down, down

Until they soak into your neck line

The first steps of making a sledding hill

Warm breaths caught in your scarf

Cold sweat rests in your hat

The first sled is dropped

The first hill has been sledded

The first hill has been climbed

Countless rides and climbs later

A fire warms the inside of your body

A frozen tundra chills through your many layers

Jack Frost's chilled hand grips your arm 

Grueling steps through the heavy snow

Barely enough energy to lift your own leg

Stomp, stomp, stomp

Snow flying

Heads shaking

Mittens falling

Coats being torn off

Wet socks on the warm, wood floor

Chocolate scents fill your nostrils

Lava Chocolate melts my frozen throat

Sweet peppermint hot chocolate

Shivers racking through my half frozen

Half unfrozen body

Blankets everywhere

Blinding day turn to pitch black night

Layer, layer, layer after layer

The human burritos ascend again.

The Growing Process

Author's Note: This was a lot harder than I thought it would be.  Many times in this theme essay, I wanted to  trail off into details that weren't relevant, nor were they in common with the other books. Let's just say that I made a lot of edits to this essay to make it as relevant to all 3 books as possible.

Rebellion.  It starts out as a small and ridiculous idea.  Branches out to minuscule actions.  And blossoms into thoughtless, daring outbreaks.  Rebellion is going against what you are told, and doing what you feel is right.  Even though Katniss from the Hunger Games, Marena from the Silenced, and Guy from Fahrenheit 451 appear to be three completely different people, they all rebel from their government.  They know it is suicide, but they are willing to fight for what's right, or die trying.  Though there are many reason why these stories were written, one of the main themes in all three novels is rebellion from a crazed government. 

In order to create a perfect society, you have to start with a screwy society.  Maybe a community where the government forces children fight to their death, maybe a place where you can't have your own thoughts and opinions, maybe a world where you are brainwashed and molded into a perfect clone of what the government wants you to be.  Yeah, there we go.  Katniss, Marena, and Guy all live in an image of a futuristic society where the government has gone haywire and no one is speaking up for what they believe in, what's right.  The government is so intimating and utterly fearless because they kill innocent souls to show power,and everyone just loses their spine and follows the leader like a dog; it makes Katniss, Marena, and Guy ashamed.  Yet, it plants the smallest, tiny tiniest seed of rebellion in their soil.

After adding annoyance like water and shining hatred like sunlight, that midget seed has grown into a baby sprout.  The government gets even more unruly with mad laws being enforced now more than ever. Thoughts of rebellion pace back and forth in their heads, but none roam farther than that.  Guy, Katniss, and Marena are the only people who believe differently from the government, and they know it.  That's why they don't act on their mindless thoughts, because they would be confined to jail, and their ideas would be as good as dead, shot down, gone with the wind. However, just like in any other movie or book out there, the practical-sensible part of their being is ignored, and the thoughts roaming their confused heads mold into unhinged actions, a mere skeleton.   The sprout is growing into a tree.

Friends and family telling them to stop, shake that silly thought out of their head, and get back in line like everyone else only adds fertilizer to the growing tree.  Why should they be silenced, follow the leader, just be another expendable piece in the government's puzzle?  That's not what's right, but it's for the greater good, right?  Wrong.  Katniss wishes for the twisted government to collapse in fire, Marena dreams of breaking the silence and being different, Guy imagines having the right to think independently.  In the end, the bombs rain down from heaven above, bullets fly in air, and flames rage on, but our lone tree still stands.  The government withers in the debris, while the itty bitty little seed, salvaging sprout, and grounded tree stand strong in victory. 

Montag, Katniss, and Marena all made a choice. A choice that was insane, daring, dangerous, and most of all rebellious.  The authors of their books all had a skeleton of a story, but added the theme of rebellion to give the story more depth and meaning.  They made the reader contemplate whether the reader themselves would make those sacrificial, rebellious choices like the main characters.  Their stories ask the question: how far would you go to do what's right?

Clear Conscience

Author's Note: This is my creative writing prediction piece for  the story 'Thank you, M'am".  This is pretty much a piece that I wrote that shows that I predict that Roger will always remember the lesson that Mrs. Jones taught him.

With a sigh and a groan of his empty stomach, Roger stands up, brushes off his grubby jeans and trudges farther down the alley to the replenished dumpster. In the dumpster, an ocean of crumpled burger wrappers, dingy napkins, and flattened fry containers stare back at him.  A filthy, gunk ridden arm later, Roger evacuates his arm from the ocean of disgusting with little reward.  Roger stalks back to his makeshift 'home' in this rank New York alley and plops himself down to dine on his gourmet dumpster dinner.  The never ending stream of people 'on this New York city street amaze him; besides the general office worker clones, weird faces and frightening outfits flash by Roger all throughout the day.   So many people, all of them have so much money and wealth and they won't share it with you?  Greedy jerks.  What if I just took some random old ladies purse?  She could be as good as dead, walking along this busy city street with a purse full of retirement money and goodies.  Immediately, Roger shakes the thought out of his head.  No, Mrs. Jones taught you better.  She taught you that stealing from people that work hard is daffy, and you will look like a fool if you are ever caught by a merciless soul.  Roger slumps further down in his seat while releasing a breath he didn't know that he was holding.  For yet another freezing night, Roger sits alone at dusk with an empty pocket, but guilt free conscience.  

No Words

Author's Note: This is a prediction of what I predict will happen at the end of Buried Treasure.  I think this will be the ending, because just like any other horror story, you think that there will be a happy ending and the BOOM major plot twist with just a hint of karma entwined in the mix.

Cody stands there with sweaty, shaky hands.  Devils and Angels blabber back and forth inside his head; 'Don't do it! You make a promise!' 'Come on! We will be rich!'.  He shakes the thoughts out out his head,  and snatches the hook off the floor without hesitation and tosses the golden treasure into the cast iron mold above the fire.  Releasing the breath that he didn't know he was holding, Cody slumps back into a chair near the fire and waits for the gold to melt.  Somewhere between settling down in the chair, and the gold being completely melted, Cody slipped away into a slumber.  

Cody is awakened by a loud thump thump thump at the door.  Like a bunny near a person, he freezes instantly.  So many thoughts from taking the hot iron cast and running, to acting like it wasn't him run through his head, but no thought turned to action as he stay frozen in disbelief.  With a creeek, the heavy wooden door finally opens and Cody can't find the air in the room.  At the mouth of the door stand Clarence Buchanan.  

With dark, menacing, unforgiving eyes, Clarence saunters over to the still frozen Cody.  And the whole time, Cody can't even find the words to scream.

In Hopes of an Easy Way Out

Author's Note: I just feel like some people I know really need to read this.

Sweaty palms and shallow breaths; your hands are shaking.  Black, mascara stained tears race down your face, they have been for a while now.  A million thoughts are jumping around in your head, but a lone thought sticks out, You are worthless and no one loves you.  With one last sob, you bring the razor up to your wrist and start to cut a now jagged line from  the racking tremors coursing through your body.  You have done this countless times before, but you know tonight is the night you are going to end it all.  The whole time you cut, all you can think of is You are worthless and no one loves you.  You are worthless and no one loves you.  You are worthless and no one loves you.  Too many teenagers nowadays think life is so bad, and their way out of it all is self harm or even suicide; it's not.

At least once in your life, you have thought about what life would be like without you.  Images of happier parents, happier friends, and happier family members flash through your mind, but it's all an illusion.  In the heat of the moment, it seems like no one will miss you, like no one will even care, but you don't even know how much you mean to them.  Just for arguments sake, let's say that you have no friends, your parents are unloving, and all of your family is dead to you; people will still miss you. Remember the girl who saw you slip up about things at home and start crying at school?  Remember the boy who made you smile when you were about to cry?  Remember that teacher that you talked to like a friend?  They will all miss you.  Every single one of them.

In that moment when you think you are about to make life easier, you think about others, but do you think about yourself?  Do you think about what you are actually doing, and how much you are going to miss out on in your life?  You are just going through a time where everything is going haywire; that doesn't mean that you are going to be stuck in the hurricane of bleakness for the rest of your life.  Just like the rainbow after the rain, things are bound to improve in the near future.  In the eyes of every teenager, everything seems like the end of the world.  Just ask yourself, Is taking my own life really going to solve anything? No.  Suicide is a permanent solution for temporary  problems.

You envision yourself finally at peace; you know that once this is done the universe will go back to normal but just like all of your other assumptions, you are wrong.  Unfortunately, we live in a screwy society.  Society is completely oblivious to the fact that they are the reason why so many people commit suicide.  Bullies rein, no one stands up for the bullied, and that destroys kids.  I wonder if they know that they are driving kids to taking their own lives.  But do you know what the worst part of it all is?  The damage is already done, the cuts have already been made, the teens have already died, and know one can comprehend why.  We blame our guilt on society, but our heads are too far up in the clouds to realize that we are society. Society will always demand perfection and shun the imperfect, which is why so many teens feel unequal and unloved which, if not corrected, can lead to death by your own hand.

Sweaty palms and shallow breaths; your hands are shaking.  Black, mascara stained tears race down your face, they have been for a while now.  A million thoughts are jumping around in your head, but a lone thought sticks out, You are worthless and no one loves you.  With one last sob, you bring the razor up to your wrist and start to cut a now jagged line from  the racking tremors coursing through your body.  The blood starts to course down your arm, and you arrive at the point of no return.  Still blinded from the truth, you say your goodbyes to the world, you know they will be better off without you.  Little do you know, they won't be; your teacher, the friendly stranger, and the boy who made you smile, they will all have a small pit of sorrow in their heart for you.  They wonder why you were driven to cut off your life at the start.  Before you really got to live.  What about everyone else?  Society only cares now that you are already gone, and society blames society for practically holding the razor to your arm.  And you? You were completely unaware to the fact that you matter: always have, always will.  It may not seem like it would make a difference if you were alive or dead, but it will; don't fool yourselves, you are important, not a waste of human life, and 100% irreplaceable.

Thank You Dudes

Author's Note: Well, now we know what we get when we breed boredom and having to write an essay that you have not even the slightest input about.  Regardless, I hope this catastrophic mess brings a smile to your face, like it did to me.

It has been so many years since our founding fathers established America.  Most of the things they did were good.  But some of the other things they did were bad.  Yes, they set up some rules that were good, but that was at the time.  Other rules that they didn't make would have come in handy in later years.

Some of the things that they did right were that they made freedom of speech.  Now, we can talk freely.  They also made other rules, and we can talk freely.  Talking freely is good.  When we talk freely we can show how we feel.  That is a good thing.  Sam likes talking freely.

They did bad things.  They didn't make equal rights.  Women were not able to vote.  That is a mean thing to do.  WOMEN HAB SOLS!  They also made black people feel bad.  They treated black people with no respect, and made them slaves.  BLAHCK PEOPLE HAB SOLS, TOO!  R. E. S. P. E. C. T. find out what it means to me R. E. S. P. E. C. T!

Lastly, I just wanted to say that the first dudes that set up America were alright.  They did some cool things, but some other things were not cool.  Either way, we are still here, and in one piece, so thank you founding dudes!  The end.

Cause and Effect

Author's Note:  I HATE THESE THINGS WITH A PASSION. Oh, and this is about the book, Rose Madder, by Stephen King, and I haven't read it all, so I am writing based off of what I have read thus far.

In average marriages today, you can be an independent person, and your significant other will still love you.  Too bad Rosie Daniels', because her marriage doesn't fall into the normal category; she is married to an abusive, brute, cop.  For 14 years, Rosie has had to deal with being beaten and losing her unborn children, by the hand of her pig husband, Norman Daniel.  Rosie finally thinks it's time to break out of the chains that enclose her and for once in her life do something for her greater good; she is running away and starting anew.     This is the climax of the novel. If I were Rosie, I wouldn't have suffered for nearly as long as she did.

Well, that doesn't fly for Norman Daniels; if she is caught, Rosie is going to feel the consequences.  He is on the hunt for Rosie, and he is seeking blood.  By driving Rosie to run away, Norman has lost the 'normal' life he portrays, and he wants her back.  While hunting down Rosie, Rosie herself is picking up the pieces of her own life.  She has no time to find another man to love, but could she even love again?  Her dark pasts haunts her everyday, and everywhere she goes she has to check behind her for Police lights.  Yes, she is free, but some part of her will always be attached to Norman Daniels.

Conflict/Resolution

Author's Note:  Don't read this if you haven't finished reading Fahrenheit 451.

Imagine living a life, where you can't be or do what you want, and you are constantly scared.  Does it sound like a life you want to live?  No.  Montag, from Fahrenheit 451,  is a lone person guy who is versing society, and wants to live in a society where you can be yourself, do what you want, read want, believe in what you want.  Too bad for Montag, his dream is all but crazy because being yourself is going against the law. In his society, the higher class people are all anti books, and living in the scared society that Montag does, no one stands up for what they believe in.  His society unconditionally follows the leader, and whatever they say, goes.  The main conflict is simple: Montag wants something that he can't have or shouldn't even dream of having

 Montag can't stand it anymore, and after trying (and failing) to change the world, he is contemplating leaving and being an outsider or staying and not being happy.  In the end Montag's resolution is just running away as a fugitive, as his world as he knows it, goes up in flames.  Guy Montag is not alone, there are others just like him, and they are the only ones to survive. The main resolution is having the survivors, who believe in freedom and being yourself, build a society up from the ashes, literally.

The Eyes

Author's Note:  Well, I am pretty proud of myself for this; not going to lie.  It gave my teacher the chills, and me as well.  I know that there are grammatical errors, but I forgot where they were, so oh well.

“It’s dinner time!” I holler up to Bren and Luca, who are playing Dress Up, in Bren’s Room.  I wait at the bottom of the stairs, a dishcloth in hand, for a response from either of them.  Muffled giggling escapes from upstairs, I know they can hear me,  just as I am about to climb the stairs and go get them I hear a door open and close.  Seconds later, Luca is coming down stairs trying to stifle a laugh.  I get a better look at him, blue eye shadow cascades his eyelids and obnoxious red lipstick is all over the vicinity of his mouth.  Luca’s sister is steps behind laughing like hyena.

 “Nice makeup, Luca,” I say, acting completely oblivious to the fact that he resembles a clown.

 “You like, huh?” Luca says smoothly.

 “Yeah, it really brings out your eyes,” I answer.  Lucas’ littler sister Bren appears right behind him, and smiles.

 “I did it myself, doesn’t Luca look so pretty, Spencer?” Bren is too young and innocent to comprehend sarcasm.  She is only five years old, but with a brother like Luca, she will be the snappiest little spit fire by the time she is seven.

 “He looks amazing, Bren,” I smile at her and her soft blue eyes shine back at me. “Why don’t you go wash your hands, before we have dinner?”  She give a small nod, allowing her angelic blond lock of hair to fall in her face, she tucks away the stray blonde curl and hops off the bottom step.  Luca steps down, attempting to glide by me but I step in front of him.  Wielding only a washcloth, I take the cloth and gently rub above his eyes and over his lips, my intensions clear.   Luca pulls away gently, and heads down the last stair to join his sister in the bathroom.

 I follow Luca to the bathroom, but turn left into the Kitchen.  I grab the two bowls of ‘gourmet’ macaroni and cheese from the counter and set them on the table, along with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for Bren and a grilled cheese sandwich for Luca.

 “Ow!  Luca, why did you do that?”  I overhear Bren’s voice from the bathroom.  I really don’t want to deal with anymore sibling warfare so I head over to the bathroom.  As I peek around the corner, Bren’s eyes meet mine and I see the tears start to well up in her eyes.  My eyes dart to her forearm where there is a bleeding scratch mark, and blood like lava is sliding down to her elbow already.  Without thinking, I pounce past Luca, grab some toilet paper, and start to wrap it around Bren’s arm until I can go upstairs and get a bandage.

 “Luca! Did you do this to Bren?” I ask stiffly.  He is looking down, washing his hands, and acting like I’m not there.  “Luca! Did you do this to Bren?” I demand, with authority in my voice this time around.  He still doesn’t look up, completely unfazed by me, and at Bren’s crying .  I’ve had it up to here with his nonsense!  A million things are going on at once, but everything comes to a halt as Luca snaps his head over to look at me.  All I can do is choke out a gasp.

 Luca’s eyes pierce into mine.  I take them in all at once; his whole eye is black with the exception of a slim white ring in the middle of his eye where his iris should be.  His expression is vacant, but reeks of an eerie sensation.  Without success, I have tried to speak sensible word, but no words can escape my lips.  Bren lets out a sob and my eyes shoot back to her.

 “Spencer, my arm hurts.  I want Mommy!” she pleads in agony

 “Come here, Bren” I say with and urgent tone.  “Luca, are you okay?” No other words come to my mouth as I bring Bren into my arms.  Luca doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t have to because a sickly and  menacing smile floats to his face.  That is my cue to snatch Bren up in my arms and run to the kitchen for the phone.  Just a few steps from the phone receiver mounted to the wall, Luca scales across the wall, snatches the phone, and drops it in the fish tank just a few feet from the receiver.   I recoil and almost slip on the polished floor.  I must be drugged or something, because this just doesn’t happen, little seven year old boys don’t climb along the walls!

 I feel Bren’s tears soak into my shirt, and I know that I have to deal with her gashes; that cut is pretty deep and I wonder if she needs stitches.  That and a million other thoughts are racing through my head, and I can’t think straight.  Think, Spencer! Think!  My feet act before I can sort my thoughts and I am carried up the stairs and to the medicine cabinet.  With Bren still cradled in my arms, I free an arm and fling open the door.  My eyes scan the shelves as I hear a hissing sound and a soft patter coming my way, Luca is coming up the stairs! Where are you, stupid first aid kit?!!  I drop Bren to the bathroom doorway and keep looking.  When Luca is maybe five steps away from the top, my eyes find the first aid kit.  Reflexes like lightning, I grab the kit and pounce into the bathroom, shutting the door behind me.  And I sure as heck don’t forget to lock and double check the door.

 Eyes locked on the door, I back up to meet Bren, who is sitting on the toilet wearing the face of raw fear on her face.

 “Keep your eyes on the door for me, okay?” I ask her, trying to keep a calm façade.   She barely nod, but I know she will.  With fingers delicate as a feather, I unwrap the makeshift bandage that is now stained red. Without any other examination I know that she does indeed need stitches.  Four red slashes mark her arms, and I can’t imagine this petite girl’s pain.  In all honesty, I have not the first clue what to do to clean this up, but I keep my composed façade. “Okay, we need to clean your cuts so I can bandage you up,”  I declare.  “It’ll be okay, I promise,” I reassure her.

 “Is Luca going to be okay,” she coos.  I really don’t have any clue what’s wrong with him, let alone if I know if he is going to be ok.  Lying is not the right thing to do now, but she needs comfort so I nod my head and try to focus on Bren’s arm.  I pick her up off the toilet lid and set her on the step stool in front of the sink, keeping in my how weak her arm is.  The squeaky water handle comforts our dead silence, and the water is a thin stream.  Without glancing up, I slightly grab Bren’s wrist, she flinches but relaxes with my soft touch.  As water cascades onto her wound, the blood washes and I can clearly see how deep they are,  let’s just say they are not shallow.  A glimpse up at Bren’s face makes me uneasy, he face has drained of color.  I shut off the water of hear a hissing and slithery sound outside the door.  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on absolute end, and if I thought there was no color in Bren’s face before, I would think that she was in a black and white movie now.

  “It’ll be fine”  I lie.  Snapping open the first aid kit, I am rewarded  with gauze pads and tape and best of all, Neosporin.  Before too much blood pools in her hollow wounds again, I squeeze a generous amount of Neosporin onto her arm, cover it with gauze, and seal it with something better than a kiss; medical tape.  A taped arm later, the hissing, slithering, and now eerie moans have not stopped.  Bren hugs her knees up to her chest and is rocking back and forth as I pace the bathroom tile.  No brilliant ideas wander to my mind after ten grueling minutes, so I sit next to Bren and gather her fragile body up into my arms.  She has had the worst night, by far, whether it be getting scratched or seeing her big brother being possessed by God knows what.

 Too many tears later the hissing and moaning stops and I hear the presence flow father away.  I wait for another few minutes to make sure that I don’t even hear the slightest noise.  My hands slightly run across Bren’s forehead and her eyes flutter open.  At this exact moment, she looks like the most innocent, fragile, little angel that floated down to Earth.  I pull her up on my hip and make the ‘quiet’ gesture.  She nods in response, allowing those now less angelic lock of hair fall into her eyes; I remember just a little while ago when her strands looked like gold, maybe it’s the lighting in this bathroom but it looks like pieces of straw gone haywire.  I give her a reassuring half smile, and turn the bathroom doorknob.  If only I knew what lied ahead for us, I would never have left the safe haven of the bathroom.

 Trying to be quiet and swift like a ninja, I tiptoe down the stairs, scanning the living room for Luca, no sign of him.  I reach for the from door and turn the knob.  Almost there.  When I go to pull the door open it doesn’t move.  Looking up wildly, I finally notice that the door is locked shut by a nailed piece of plywood.  Where did Luca even get plywood from?  I let a couple choice words slip from my tongue but who is here to care?  My question to myself is answered by a slithering and moaning coming from upstairs.  More words slip from my mouth, but I just run into the kitchen, stealth isn’t my angle anymore.

 As I turn the corner to the garage door, two doors look at me.  Which one is which slips my mind, so I choose quick and bolt down what are the basement stairs, trying to escape the moans and slithering.  I haul Bren and myself off to a corner and nestle myself deep down into the boxes surrounding us.  I don’t dare move let alone breath as the door at the top of the stairs opens allowing light to stream down the steps.  The light is enclosed once again as Luca or whatever is in his body comes down the stairs, closer and closer to me.  I protect Bren’s body with my own.

 In the dim light of the basement’s window I can see Luca scanning the room predatorily.  Not 5 feet away, he stares at me and I’m sure we are caught but I see the slim white rings in his eyes keep scanning the boxes.  I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding very quietly, and relax a little but until I can’t fully relax until I am home in my own bed safe.  Just as Luca is about to climb the stairs again his head stops abruptly and he cocks his head as listening for something.  A breath catches in my throat  and my body tenses up.

 As if Luca can smell fear, he turns on his heel and head straight for us.  When he finally reaches us I let out a defining scream for help, but it only seems to fuel Luca.  He grabs my collar and yanks me out from our box cave.  For a seven year old, Luca is immensely strong; still grasping my collar, he effortlessly flings me into the pile of boxes against the wall.  Boxes rain down on me, and I hear Bren scream.

 “I’m fine, Bren,” I shout.  Pushing up off the floor, I can hear blood pounding in my ears and cold adrenaline seeping into my veins as I stand up.  Besides Luca’s looming eyes, at this angle his silhouette looks like a Damned Angel of Darkness.  He cock his head and a ominous smile accompanies his vacant eyes.  “Why are you doing this, Luca?!” I scream.

 With a voice like poison in my veins, he answers, “I am not Luca!  I am Adrian.  A damned demon who reeks havoc any claims the souls of the innocent.”

 Well, I wasn’t expecting that.  “Just leave us alone!” I shriek.  This only fuels Adrian more, and he swiftly dances over to me.  His hands are around my throat and I can’t do anything about it.  In addition to the strangling, Adrian is shaking the life out of me, choking more efficiently.  I am going to die like this, I know that for certain.


  “Spencer, get up” A familiar voice calls out to me.  I snap open my eyes and automatically reach my hands up to my strangled throat only to find nothing.  My head snaps up and I take in my surrounding all at once; I am in the living room.  “We are back.  The kids are watching TV, and they said that you put out their dinner and laid down for a nap,”  Bren and Luca’s mother’s voice fills my ears.  It was just a dream, a horrid, sick, and twist nightmare.  I reassure myself.  I give her a nod, and try to calm my nerves.  She smiles at me and helps me up off the couch.  It is already 10:00.

 She takes me to the kitchen and reaches into her wallet for my earnings, “Here is what we owe you, and thanks again for watching Bren and Luca on such short notice.” Bren and Luca’s dad chimes in.

 “No problem” I say with a smile.  “I guess I’ll be going”  They both give me a nod and a smile and I’m on my way out the door.  I look for any nail or screw marks on the door or next to the door but noting is there, but smooth wall.  I shake thought out of my head and push open the door and out to my car.  Just as I am about to get in, Luca comes out the front door.

 “Thanks for coming over and playing with me,”  he says with a menacing smile and the vacant stare that fills his black eyes with the slim white rings.

Swallowing my Orange Pride

Author's Note: This story is really embarrassing! Don't worry, I still have the stain on my shirt, and it is more persistent than ever. I guess it just shows everyone how much of a weirdo I am.

I can hear blood pumping in my ears and heavy breathing; it’s me.  Just rounding the first turn outside Miller Park, and I am already tired.  Why am I already tired, I haven’t been running that long?  So far I have just ran the first stretch of the Milwaukee Color Run 2012, and I am longing to get to the first K so I can occupy my mind with something other than how drained I already am.  White t shirts flash by me, and I know I am slowing down, I was passing people like lightning in the kickoff of the race, but now my dust eaters are gaining on me.  A pit of regret fills my churning stomach and I know that the slow and steady wins the race, but when do I ever listen to that?  Most of the time I am my own personal coach.  Just keep running, my devilish self yells internally.  My own words empower me more and I repass a slightly chunky jogger from the first wave.  Ignoring the little voice in the back of my head, telling me to be the slow and steady runner, I keep pushing onward.  Trying to keep running.  Trying to forget about being tired.  Trying to get lost in my own mind.

Even though I eventually stopped pushing myself, and silence my inner thoughts.  Running at my own steady pace, I try not to mind the people passing me, it doesn’t mean my angel on my right and my devil on my left shut up.  Just stay at your own pace, you are doing fine, my angel whispered; come on pick it up, did you see that lady with twins in a double stroller just pass you, my devil on the left barked out.  I didn’t have time to stop and silence my inner turmoil, because a orange cloud of powder paint is emerging from within the parking lot; I am almost done with my first of 5 K’s.  Gaging in my head how far it is from the mist of orange, and how much running energy I have left, I decide it was smart to rest, before I run through the foggy orange veil.  

Maybe 500 feet away, I pick up the pace, and steady myself at a slower run.  Tangerine ribbons fly to and fro in front of me.  It doesn’t look like there is any chance to see where I am going without plastering my eyes peach.  Great.  The radical orange ribbons are nearing me so I brace myself to drive face first into the cloud of orangey color.  I pull in my head for reasons unknown, drag my shirt up over my nose, and just as I enter the orange uncertainty I squeeze my eyes shut.  All I can think of right now is enjoying the orange cloaking my unblemished, white shirt.  Little did I realize while I was soaking up the titan, my shirt slid off my nose, leaving my nose and huffing and puffing mouth unrobed.  Unable to close my panting mouth, orange snakes find their way past my lips, and nestle all throughout my inner mouth.  

I automatically regret my prior choice to keep running and leave my mouth vulnerable through the peach parade.  Even though I am through the first station, I can see nothing be orange, I can taste nothing but orange.  As a natural reaction to my sabulous mouth, I start hacking like I have Pertussis.  The worst part, I can do nothing about it!  My devil on my shoulder thinks differently; Just spit it out, dummy, she barks out. My angel thinks differently; she whispers into my ear very softly,  You will get water soon, you’ll be fine.  I still haven’t cleared my head about whether to spit or swallow, let alone wipe my sunglasses of their tangerine tint.  When I finally decide to regain my eyesight to its full potential, my decision is pretty clear.

I see orange shirts pull of from the crowd and spit orange slobber; no one likes the taste of colored corn starch, I wonder why.  Following the parting crowds, I gather all the saliva into part of my mouth and find the perfect time to spit onto the grass.  Right, now!  I spit out all that I can and just keep running, planning to part with my orange friends, but it has different plans.  Little did I know that while breathing heavily with my mouth ajar meant that it was that much harder to spit.  My little orange friend, instead of parting with me, decided to tag along and find it’s way right to the front of my shirt, right smack dab in the middle!

Why me?!  Everyone else has no problem discharging their orange paint from their mouth but mine came right back and made itself at home.  My orangy cheeks flush red, I’m sure, and I look around wildly for any bystanders who saw my epic fail.  No one makes fun, or rather looks like they noticed so I just keep running, trying to play it cool.  I beat myself up for being a total goober.  I think from now on I will just swallow and not risk looking like a idiot.  For now I just have to swallow my pride, swallow my big orange pride.  

Nevermore Retelling

Author's Note:  As you can tell, I am SO good at retelling.  It's not my fault that when I was young, summaries were the only type of writing I knew.  It is a hard habit to break.

One teenage girl has to save the world; seven billion lives.  And if that isn't enough weight on her shoulders, Max is torn between her 'perfect' other half, Dylan, or Fang, who knows Max and has been by her side since forever.  Can the flock get over family turmoil and save the world we live in?  Find out in the Young Adult Science Fiction book, Nevermore, by James Patterson; the Author of other thrillers such as Alex Cross, Women's Murder Club, Daniel X, and many other stand alone thrillers, nonfiction, and romance novels.

Faux Congratulations

Author's Note: Rant writing isn't my knack, but I didn't chose to write about this. Here, I have attempted to speak my mind about a quote that speaks to me. Attempted is the key word in my previous statement.

"If you achieve success , you will get applause, and if you get applause, you will hear it.  My advice to you concerning applause is this; enjoy it but never quite believe it.”
-Robert Montgomery


Whether you realize it or not; naturally, you cheer people on even if they didn’t do as good as they could have.  It’s good sportsmanship to cheer people on, unconditionally.  The dilemma I have with unconditional  cheering is I want my friends, family, teachers, teammates, and peers to be honest with me.  I don’t want to be falsely cheered on when I mess up, I want to be told that I can do better; I want people to believe in me and my abilities. Even if I think I do an exceptional job, I am very skeptical about whether I actually deserve it or if the world is just being a ‘good sport’.  The world needs less ‘good sports’ and more people who will push you to do better, the people whose words can hurt, but make you stronger and prominent.