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.