They were over and he knew it. They were over and she didn't. The little things- the transitional touches when turning a corner, the frequency of smiles, the speed of walking, all were altered. He picked up on mammorisms and the change in habitual tendencies of their relationship. It was the the kinds of things that your best friend wouldn't understand and would not pick up on. If you were to describe them, your friend would say you were overreacting and being paranoid, but he felt it so deeply that being around her at all was a challenge in itself. Standing next to her was a tease. Any where away from her was a place of halfhearted denial. He knew what was true and consciencely chose to live a lie. In this way, he convinced his mind that he was being true to himself. Being away was a sovereign from the misery of watching their relationship crumble, without having to be there to watch it happen.

He had always been close with Ashley from physics class. When they were younger, he had always looked up to her. Although they were the same age, she seemed mature, and had only dated guys in grades above her. This, as it usually goes, had made him want her more since she appeared to be so untouchable. Because she was so far out of his league at the time, he didn't notice when she began to become more in his range of possible girls to date. As time went on, and the older boys had gone away to college, she made the decision to lower her standards. He, at this point, was already with Jessica, so Ashley never really came to mind. In a parallel universe, a shift of earth's poles, or maybe simple karma, the situation had been reversed. Mike was the one who was off limits, while Ashley was alone and considered her new options.

Jessica was surprised when Mike turned down her offer to get frozen yogurt after school. Even though the weather was starting to cool, it was still part of the pattern the two of them had created during the routine school week. She walked home like usual, thinking while she observed the neighborhood scenery that often went ignored. Life had always been easy; there had never before been a reason to rate and rationalize how events in her life were going. She had always driven through her life as if she were running on a track. There was never a reason to look back or time to think when you were supposed to move forward. However, for a reason she couldn't break down into worded thoughts, Jessica felt as if all her organs had settled in the bottom of her stomach and were colliding into eachother. With this uneasiness came a heightened sense of awareness, and thoughts became detailed with more edge to them, instead of the rounded, unfocused mindset she usually posessed. This wasn't like being upset over a bad test grade, or because of a scraped knee. This was a hopeless, worthless feeling, as if the sun beating down her was there just to burn her scalp, and the trees next to the sidewalk were there to shield any blue in the sky. It was the first time that Jessica had ever felt rejected.

The end of quarter one meant that desks were to be rearranged. Mike sat with his books in hand on the radiator, abandoning his desk as Mr. Henry retrieved the new seating chart. He didn't really care where his new seat was. Physics required concentration, and at the same time was boring and the blandest class he attended during the day. Sitting next to a good friend wouldn't alter the circumstances of the class, as there was no time to talk and nothing to talk about. The sole time the students could talk was on lab days, to a lab partner which was assigned by who you sat besides. Mr. Henry called out names as he pointed to seats row by row. It was as if each student was being told which cell they were to be held captive in every fourth and fifth period, five days a week. Mike slammed his books down on his desk as if his arms were took weak to withstand gravity. He kicked his feet and slouched down into his seat, his head slightly falling back. Next to him, Ashley was getting accustom to her new desk, placing her books inside of it in an organized fashion and sitting with her legs crossed and hair flipped back. She angled her body so that her legs were in the middle of the row, and her body was facing Mike. She began a friendly conversation, making jokes and throwing her head back in exaggerated laughs. Mike smiled at her jokes and witty comments as they waited for everyone to finally be seated. As Mr. Henry began notes, Ashley rolled her eyes and shifted her body towards the black board. Mike held his gaze as her hair was flipped back into place, then opened his notebook and started to write.

Jessica stared at her phone waiting for it to vibrate, or at least show some sign of life. Instead, it lay still on her desk. She opened it up hoping to see a text, but instead she was met with her home screen. Jessica was beginning to despise the screen she saw when she opened her phone, as recently it was met with disappointment. She had been changing the background picture every week, then every day, then numerous times a day as she took out her frustration on the photo that was meant to provide simple decoration for an otherwise square, bland, piece of metal. Mike had stopped speaking to her the way he used to. At first, it was unapparent and didn't hold much importantcy, considering their texting conversations were usually limited to a six word maximum. But it had begun to become blatantly obvious that Mike had been holding out on her. Even at night, Jessica found herself wondering if Mike had went to sleep, as he no longer texted her to say goodnight. Part of the modern phenomenum of technology is the way texts can be deciphered in frequency, letters, and symbols as good or bad. Even to an amateur texter, the messagers coming from Mike were pathetic. Anticipation bubbled up into Jessica's throat. She had made the executive decision to do the inconceivable. With a rush of impulse, as if posessed by a champion cliff diver, she texted Mike first. As the anxiety worked as adrenaline in her vains, Jessica stared at dead black screen, only to be met with her reflection. Five minutes, then twenty minutes went by, and still no reply. Mike usually kept his phone on vibrate, so he always felt it if he received a text. Jessica shrank with the realization that Mike was ignoring her, and turned her attention back to the essay she was supposed to be writing. Concentration was impossible, as every idea for her essay turned into Mike's face, or transitioned into thoughts about Mike. Forcing her voice to sound as chirpy and upbeat as possible, she raised her hand to go to the bathroom. The halls were shielded by a windshield of water as she ran into an open stall and silently sucummbed to the rejection.

After class, Mike walked with Ashley down the senior hallway, passing the usual abundance of students plastered against the locker walls. If this hadn't been school, the situation would most likely be deemed as unfair and poor conditioned, but this was highschool. Cramped spaces, sticky desks, and a room temperature that was never exactly room temperature, but always a few degrees too cold or too hot, was what the highschoolers had grown accustom to. Time had a mind of its own. It chose when to drag on for endless amounts of hours during labs and lessons, and also decided when to fly by (usually during a big test or when attempting to copy homework). School had a beat to it, with classes, lunch periods, clubs, sports, all blending into a pattern in one's mind. Nothing particularly stood out, it was all part of the routine. That's why Mike found it odd when he stopped by Jessica's locker and she wasn't there. He waited for a few moments, scanned the hallway both ways as if he were crossing a street, and then continued talking to Ashley on his way to class.

Jessica , as usual, had her mind in the clouds. The light thoughts that fluttered in her mind usually were not a problem, as she was an optimistic person who mostly thought of positive aspects of life. However, as gloom took over her being and mixed with these fluttering thoughts, she became somewhat lost. This is what attributed to her forgetting an important assignment that had been due that day and having to talk to her teacher after class to discuss her forgetfulness. After a rushed, strained conversation, as Jessica had another class to get to, she dashed into the hallway, nearly colliding with traffic. After regaining composure, she speedily walked to her locker, her legs straight like a soldier in her attempt to maximize the use of muscle in her legs. Her peripheal vision wasn't exactly at its optimum, as Jessica brushed past a mixture of different hair colors and skin tones, until the corners of her eyes revealed only a light, sandy brown color. She nearly missed Mike in her mission to arrive on time to class. She noticed him walking slowly, extremely engrossed in a conversation with some girl. As they past eachother, Jessica turned around and watched his head disappear into a sea of brunettes and blondes. It seemed odd to her, that she had noticed him, even while nearly sprinting to class, and he, walking barely two miles per hour, had looked past her.

Battle

"You don't make any sense"
"You know what doesn't make any sense? The fact that you say I don't make any sense when I clearly do make perfect sense! Does that make sense to you?"
"That didn't make any sense"
"You dont make sense"
"Really? So just because you sound like a babbling retard, you don't comprehend my whole existence? Does that make any sense?"
"Wow you're a horrible person, I have a cousin who's retarded"
"Sorry. But that wasn't my point. Why are you trying so hard to change the subject? It's because you know I'm right isn't it?"
"No, it's because I have a retarded cousin and find that highly offensive."
"No you dont. You've used the word "retarded" before"
"Never"
"Yeah you have"
"Nope"
"Yup"
"Nuh-uh"
"SHUT UP YOU RETARD YES YOU HAVE"
"Offensive"
"Okay...All I want to know, is why you had to lie about where you were the other night, and why you think you can get away with everything, and why you don't care about how I feel, and why you're such a ret-idiot all the time, and why you ever started talking to me, and why-"
"I'm not an idiot"
"You clearly are. Can you answer my question?
"You asked an estimated fifteen questions. How am I supposed to know which one I'm expected to answer?"
"ANY OF THEM?!"
"Well, since I'm such an idiot, I can't really think of any answers right now."

etc.

Project Proposal:

I'm going to continue with my pieces from last year that I did as my final project. I'm just going to pick up where I left off.

Twin Day
Sam and his twin sister had always experienced the usual sychronization many pairs of twins experience. If Sam scraped his knee, his sister would cry. If Sam's parents yelled at him, his sister would feel personally offended and fight in his defense. If Sam had a broken heart, his sister didn't feel quite right, and tended to mope around the house eating chocolate and comforting icecream. So when Sam's twin was involved in a hit and run in which she was mauled by a truck, Sam didn't feel anything. Instead, he felt brain dead.
Sam's parents went through the standard grieving process. Denial, acceptance, and moving on to the best of their ability. Sam did, too. However, what people didn't understand was the lack of activity going on in his brain was barely connected to his dead twin. His thoughts dedicated themselves to her at times during the day. When passing her untouched bedroom, or seeing her empty desk in the chemistry class they both happened to be in. It wasn't that he was consumed of thoughts of her, or that he felt numb from the pain of her death. Instead, it was a deadly feeling. His thoughts showed an endless black pit. Weeks of this forced him to come to the conclusion that his sister had gone to some type of hell.

Hannah opened her eyes to gusty winds and sand blowing into her eyes. The world whizzed by her as she was swept into a tunnel of...cars, trees, and buildings. It was only after she picked her head up and turned around that she realized she was on a highway. With a shriek, she fell off of the windshield of a car, rolling onto the street. To her right, another body flew into the air and landed besides her. Realizing she did not have a scratch, Hannah sprinted, tripping over her feet, to the person laying on the pavement. Hannah watched as a pool of blood had begun to collect in a sphere around the matted hair of a girl.
"Are you okay?!"
The girl failed to respond. Panicking, Hannah reached for the cellphone she kept in her right ugg boot. Coincidently, it had begun to ring just as she took it out to dial 911. It was her mom's number.
"Hello mom? There's been an accident. I'm okay please call 911 I dont know what to do I'm all alone here and some girl is on the floor bleeding and not answering me and I'm freaking out I don't even know where the driver of the car went..."
"Hannah?"
"Mom, did you hear anything I just said?"
"Hannah, I think we have a bad connection. I just wanted to check where you are. It's getting late and I can't hear anything you're saying. So if you hear me, just text me when you're coming home please."
"Mom? I'm here! Mom..."
The line went dead. Hannah quickly dialed 911. When the operator answered, she too could not hear Hannah's voice on the other end of the line. Panicked, Hannah turned her attention to the girl sprawled out onto the floor. She felt her cold skin, and noticed her lips had turned a deep purple. Reluctantly, Hannah turned the girl to her side, as her face was smashed into the pavement. She was met with blood-crusted eyelashes and a nose so badly mangled that white bone showed through the skin. However, this could not prevent Hannah from realizing the obvious. This girl had her face.

Pajama Day

I dont know anyone who actually wears pajamas. In fact, they may be as big of a ripoff as expensive valentines day chocolate. There really is no point to it. I can't think of one reason why you would need special clothes to go to sleep in. I'd much rather wear a snuggie to sleep sleep or one of my dads big tshirts. The only times pajamas come in handy are 1) Sleepovers where a lot of pictures are being taken and 2) Pajama day. It's all for commercial purposes.
I also don't know why pajamas can't be worn in the middle of the day, or why they're considered cute or anything of that sort. They're literally baggy pieces of material. I'd much rather go to lacrosse practice in baggy pjs than tight under armour. Then again, this is my opinion. I remember being around five years old when I received my first night gown. Naturally, my grandma bought it for me from a Disney Store to match her blue linen tablecloth night gown that must have been purchased from a curtain store. I thought I was Sleeping Beauty whenever I fell asleep, until the day I realized I wasn't and that my old nightgown with the grape juice stain down the front didn't suit my needs any longer. I then graduated to a two piece, thermal pajama set that looked more like long underwear than anything else. This lasted until my first sleepover, when every other girl had tiedye sweatpant pajamas with words on the back such as "SOCCER" or "CHEER!", when half of them didn't play soccer or were a member of a cheerleading team. These pajamas cost more than regular clothing, and I had to ask every member in my family to buy them for me before realizing the softest person of them all is my grandpa, who would do anything as long as I looked at him a certain way. After this fad of pajamas went out of style, I had had enough. This is why, to this this day, I wear a baggy tshirt to bed or a sweatshirt. Nothing more, nothing less.

IN RESPONSE TO:
"Breakeven" by The Script


You say I left with my suitcase
As if it weren't already open,
On the bed,
With nothing to pack but toxic memories.
What you mean to say,
Is that I have all the baggage


The truth is, hearts don't breakeven
Overnight you become a scale of weight
Splintering a heart with the precision of a glass cutter
To me it felt more like shattering
You are incapable of weighing the shards
When they disintegrate to dust

If I was the finest part of you,
Then what are you in truth?
Siamese twins share a heart,
Conjoined in a bond without the option
Of dispatch
The thump of the heart they share is in synch...

Whereas I,
Have a heart that beats to the innocence
Of a lullaby
While you,
pound to the guilt
Of heavy, heavy, metal

If you were barely breathing,
You wouldn't sing of false accusations
To bring forth your guilt in me
If we shared a heart,
I would offer the fragments for weighing
But we don't

Your eyes resemble a kaleidoscope
But I suffer from being color blind
It’s unfathomable how you could cope

The ending was a rapid, rising slope
Leveling out, and suddenly declined
Your eyes resemble a kaleidoscope

You ascend it like a splintering rope
Limp hands are raw and bloody from the grind
To begin your descent to losing hope

Your eyes resemble a kaleidoscope
But my thoughts are not evenly aligned,
At the moment, I'm just an isotope

I hope that you know, this isn't me, nope,
The roots of my thoughts became intertwined
When windows clear, roots will elope, I hope

It’s unfathomable how you could cope
I promise you should never feel confined
Selfishness is not pure, unlike the pope,
A black hand shielding my kaleidoscope

They were over and he knew it. They were over and she didn't. The little things- the transitional touches when turning a corner, the frequency of smiles, the speed of walking, all were altered. He picked up on mammorisms and the change in habitual tendencies of their relationship. It was the the kinds of things that your best friend wouldn't understand and would not pick up on. If you were to describe them, your friend would say you were overreacting and being paranoid, but he felt it so deeply that being around her at all was a challenge in itself. Standing next to her was a tease. Any where away from her was a place of halfhearted denial. He knew what was true and consciencely chose to live a lie. In this way, he convinced his mind that he was being true to himself. Being away was a sovereign from the misery of watching their relationship crumble, without having to be there to watch it happen.
He had always been close with Ashley from physics class. When they were younger, he had always looked up to her. Although they were the same age, she seemed mature, and had only dated guys in grades above her. This, as it usually goes, had made him want her more since she appeared to be so untouchable. Because she was so far out of his league at the time, he didn't notice when she began to become more in his range of possible girls to date. As time went on, and the older boys had gone away to college, she made the decision to lower her standards. He, at this point, was already with Jessica, so Ashley never really came to mind. In a parallel universe, a shift of earth's poles, or maybe simple karma, the situation had been reversed. Mike was the one who was off limits, while Ashley was alone and considered her new options.

Jessica was surprised when Mike turned down her offer to get frozen yogurt after school. Even though the weather was starting to cool, it was still part of the pattern the two of them had created during the routine school week. She walked home like usual, thinking while she observed the neighborhood scenery that often went ignored. Life had always been easy; there had never before been a reason to rate and rationalize how events in her life were going. She had always driven through her life as if she were running on a track. There was never a reason to look back or time to think when you were supposed to move forward. However, for a reason she couldn't break down into worded thoughts, Jessica felt as if all her organs had settled in the bottom of her stomach and were colliding into eachother. With this uneasiness came a heightened sense of awareness, and thoughts became detailed with more edge to them, instead of the rounded, unfocused mindset she usually posessed. This wasn't like being upset over a bad test grade, or because of a scraped knee. This was a hopeless, worthless feeling, as if the sun beating down her was there just to burn her scalp, and the trees next to the sidewalk were there to shield any blue in the sky. It was the first time that Jessica had ever felt rejected.

The sign of Diberto's was a shiny, glittering red. It was obvious to the returning public that it had recently been redone to replace it's maroon, rusting previous one. Although most people didn't care to notice the new sign, some were surprised by the nostalgic vibe it gave off. A reminder that bright and new is the in, and old and used is the out. Certain individuals find it difficult to appreciate old, worn out objects. They fail to see the "vintage" in it. I'm not talking about the vintage that is suddenly well known and liked. I mean the classical, standard type... before everything had to be a glossy, pastel white or a metallic, deep red. Becoming smarter is not connected with age all the time, however wisdom is. The deep knowledge, almost extinct of knowing. Not only thinking you know, but having a belief so bottomless and undeniable that you'd base every decision of your life on it. Eighty year old men don't necessarily obtain this wisdom. It has to do with being born with an old soul, and learning enough through your life to unlock the potential your mind has. It's one of those things where either you have it or you don't, and she absolutely didn't.
School had started once again. The stale familiar scent of the halls sarcastically welcomed it's students back. She walked through the halls, looking straight ahead, with the exception of a wave or a smile here and there in response to a friendly face.

The goldfish swim in sacks of plastic wrap
A child sticks his finger in the cheese
The fish falls through his grasp onto his lap
And parties in his joy of dodging seize
Away from house and pretzel cousins though
Not much enjoyed through life away from home
Although the ocean is from long ago
He longs for living in his natural dome
One day the goldfish plans his quick escape
And dreams of oceans filled with snack foods high
At pizza aunts and uncles he will gape
And spend his days until is bound to die
The goldfish quickly saw his soggy end
When cracker mixed with water learned to blend

You should choke to death on a cactus spike,
Instead of helping your mom says sike
You die with false hope and disappointment
That would give me wholehearted enjoyment

I wish on you an ocean of static
Electric bolts of torture, So it's not automatic
Your pretty hair turns a fried mess
Under water, no one hears your distress

It would give me the greatest pleasure
If a beast with height too tall to measure
Took you as their meal after hibernation
Limb by limb, an amputation

Where do you go after hell?
I caste on you an infernal spell
Of living your death after death
In the exhale of coffee breath

Missing someone
Is regreting
the time spent that you let fly
Missing someone
Is either obsessively returning to the places
Or being compeltely unable
Missing someone
Is finding their presence
In the most innocent, unrelated places
Missing someone
Is keeping that repulsive birthday present
In the focal point of your room
Missing someone
Is being alone when you're alone
And being alone when you're not
Missing someone
Is being jealous of yourself
In old photos positioned next to the person
Missing someone
Is the day you know what to value
When a whole mall to yourself would have no gratification

Just a thought.......

Doodles of geometric shapes clear my head. They give dimension to my thoughts, and an image of them I can see on paper so I know they're there. The perfection of a cyclinder, the symmetry of a square organizes my thoughts into basic shapes. Boredem lays itself on my paper, along with brutal enemies happiness and sadness. All emotions go into a shape that looks three dimensional, but really is contained in a jail of ink and tree.
The lack of emotion can be seen on paper as well. It's its own feeling, and in this way it becomes something it's not. Although contradictory, it can exist on a piece of paper, therefore it must be. A silent remember that something exists up there, even if it can't be put into words. Not everything can be talked out, how do animals deal with themselves? We humans think we're so strong, when meanwhile animals can keep everything to themselves and life goes on for them, always a fight for survival. We succumb to our own weaknesses.

The clutter of his mind
Spun with thoughts
Or
Rather
Ceased to spin at all

Whizzing so fast
With velocity so great
That they clung
Plastered to the walls

Once initiated
It was hard to slow down
A train
A suicide jumper

Reflexes habitual
An airplane taking off
With engines of force
Reaching an altitude to glide

But rather than glide
His thoughts stall
Mind and soul
In a sudden descent

The Obligation to be Happy
By Linda Pastan

It is more onerous
than the rites of beauty
or housework, harder than love.
But you expect it of me casually,
the way you expect the sun
to come up, not in spite of rain
or clouds but because of them.
And so I smile, as if my own fidelity
to sadness were a hidden vice—
that downward tug on my mouth,
my old suspicion that health
and love are brief irrelevancies,
no more than laughter in the warm dark
strangled at dawn.
Happiness. I try to hoist it
on my narrow shoulders again—
a knapsack heavy with gold coins.
I stumble around the house,
bump into things.
Only Midas himself
would understand.

I like how Pastan says that people expect happiness from her "casually". I think this is true of most people. Since a main goal in life is the pursuit of happiness, people who are unhappy are generally considered unfulfilled, instead of accepted for who they are. Pastan talks about her faux happiness and how the strives to put on a good show for the people surrounding her. Instead, her "fedality to sadness" keeps her from being what people assume everyone should be. Her reference to Midas, or a god who would turn everything he touched to gold, signifys how she is expected to be perfect. She assumes that Midas himself had hardships in his life too, but common knowledge is that he was perfection.

Three Pieces From 1st Quarter

Chattel

Judge Wilner had a decision to make. Was it the store owners fault for the distribution of these things or was it the fault of the consumer with bad intentions. What were the regulations on this, anyway? What law ever stated that it is illegal to sell someone's dignity, and put it in the posession of somebody else?

In the old days, this species of a store was easy to come by. Unlike today, where it tends to be an underground business, an individual's dignity was hardly ever their own. Unless, of course, you were a king or queen, sometimes a noble here and there. If you were a peasant, your dignity was bought in part by the rich. Dignity in whole is expensive, but like a stock, parts of you could've been sold to various individuals. If you were a woman, your dignity was owned by a man. And if you were a slave, your dignity wasn't on the market, because it never existed. With time, the distribution of dignity was thrown underground by the constitution and other such acts, but legal limits have yet to be put on it.

The death of the prosecuter's client's daughter was a direct connection between the selling of her dignity and her lack of resiliency. Sure, the person who bought it abused it until all self respect dissolved into thin air. But he had paid full price for it and, legally, it belonged to him. There have been cases like this before, where the individual can bounce back from such a sale and create new dignity to work off of. Considering it is not impossible, why should anyone be persecuted? The judge made the final decision to throw the case out of court.

We're taught in the bible that Eve came from the rib of Adam, and that she was basically his underdog. She followed his orders and she lived for him. Adam set standards for her and she did her best to meet them. Lilith came before her, and was a goddess considered to be evil. Adam commanded her to do something she opposed to, and for this reason she left the Garden of Eden. She is overlooked in the bible and considered evil for disobeying Adam. What isn't known about her, however, is that Adam made the mistake of failing to purchase her dignity. He was under the impression that because she came off vulnerable (naked in an unknown new world), she would listen to him. His thoughts were contradicted, and when creating Eve, he knew better than to make that mistake again. This time, he took sole ownership of her dignity, purchasing it from a serpent who owned a store, knowing it would someday roll in big money.

As you can see, this practice has been acceptable since human kind began. How could the justice system tamper with culture, tradition, and human way? Judge Wilner faced issues equally debatable as this one on a daily basis. In a way, that's what his job description was; The combination of morals, ethics, and laws (moral/ethical or not). Although his conscience told him that his ruling was wrong, he knew he had no other choice. He was to follow the law, and his personal opinion had little say in the outcome of this case. As with the majority of government workers, he turned a blind eye.





One Person's Trash is Another's Treasure

“Would you like some tea?”
“I would. Thank you.”
“Careful. It’s hot.”
“I usually prefer iced tea.”
“Mmm. I don’t have any.”
“Maybe I can put ice in this tea.”
“But that’s what I’m saying—I don’t have any cubes.”
“Sorry.”

He couldn't drink this tea. It was hot. Hot means scorching of the tongue. As a child, he had been diagnosed with sipa, a rare medical condition that didn't allow him to feel pain. This didn't bother him. In fact, most things didn't as he didnt feel them. He could feel touch, he could feel emotion pain, but physically he couldn't comprehend what this sensation of pain was like. What bothered him was the awkward situations he was put in on a daily basis. In example, is it easier to seem rude to a job interviewer or to share an unfathomable medical condition with them in the first five minutes? Rejecting tea wasn't a considerably bad situation. Try turning down invites for paintball gunning as a kid or being unable to try out for any sport. Or going to the beach, because sand would get into his eye and scratch his cornea without him noticing. Pain may seem negative to most, but many lack appreciation for it and view it as a means of survival.

As a child, he had taken some pride in his disease. He pretended to be superman, and would jump off the swing higher than any of the other children could. When playing "mercy" he would always win. The other kids took awe when he was able to perfect a belly flop at the local pool, without crying afterwards. He had always viewed himself as tough and accepted, rather than a kid with a genetic disease who would suffer from many dillemnas growing up. It wasn't until the end of middle school, when the ability to withstand pain lost its shock value to kids on the playground, that he began to question. What was this thing they called hurt? What was it about this sensation that brought people to tears and made them scream in agony?

pain- physical suffering or distress, as due to injury, illness, etc.

He couldn't help but wonder if one day he would have cancer consume his body and not know it. Would he be on the floor dead from a heartattack without feeling the slightest symptom first? Life could be taken from him before he'd have any inkling of what was about to happen. It's not that he had a fear of the unknown like many anxious people do. It was one hundred percent reasonable, and maybe even probable, that the fears he posessed would come to be true. That left him with two options. Either he could live his life in fear, or he could use his disease to his advantage, like everyone else saw it. Knowing optimism usually wins, he chose the later of the two.



Life Behind Bars

The night I killed myself was the first time I had proof of her with this meat packing guy. I figured this must be my hell, my punishment for committing a sin in ending my own life. I am a bird; it's an instinct for me to want to fly free. Instead, I am confined to a metal cage, held down by my past. I had hope that I'd be stored away in a garage somewhere where I would be forgotten. Perhaps my wife and this monster could go on vacation and forget to feed me for a week. Maybe I could even catch some kind of bird disease and leave the world untouched with my presence. The feeling wouldn't be too foreign to me, considering she moved on fast. What I can't learn to accept is that she moved on before I was gone, and that her leaving me would have been inevitable. As a human, I believed my purpose was being the breadwinner, and having her to depend on me. The money I brought home brought us food, it paid the bills, and it didn't win her affection. Looking back, I realize I had no specific purpose, and I was confined to a similar cage as I am now. In this way my human life and bird life coincide.

I could try to fly away into the shimmering endless sky, aimlessly, forgetting my past and concentrating only on my next nest, my next twig of berries, or my next getaway plan from a predator or recreational bullet. I used to go hunting. I didn't even have a reason to shoot a bird. I swear I would've played videogames if I knew the detrimental effects the pull of a trigger causes to small animals such as myself. As much as a cage shields me from the outside world, being free would let me run from my mistakes and guilt. Instead, I am forced to rest in her palm, literally in the palm of her hand, and pretend as if I don't like it. I don't want to want her; it's a strange division between my conscience, subconscience, reality, and fantasy. Where does the line between each really begin?

One day I broke loose and flew around the house. It was the perfect plan to escape. If I had just kept quiet and waited for him to come home, I could've broke free through the door before he knew what had hit him. This was the game plan, until my jealousy and rage kicked in. My bird heart, which already beat a good 900 times a minute, accelerated to a whopping 1000. Instead of fleeing the scene, I made the imulsive decision to shit on his head. It was great. It truly was for the next few hours as I tweeted happily to my and rang bird songs throughout the house. He called me a few vulgar words which only made it better. And then I was back to square one, missing my opportunity because of a human emotion. A bird with the mind of a human. That's hell in itself. I was getting no where through my anger and desire for revenge. That's when I recognized, in the middle of a triumphant chirp, that I had to forgive her for what had transpired if I ever wanted to truly be free as a bird.

Ignorance

What does security speak of?
incoherently trudging
Across squares of hardened earth
Formed by limbs unseen.
In a world of a sense
that goes beyond the standard five

Language,
That we humans have the curse being instilled
He sees the world around him
But is blind to it all
shades of awareness
Looking through the wrong end
of a telescope

Clovers, rusty around edges
Rotted and worn from the oil of hands
Searching for the treasured quadruple leaf,
Impeccable defect?--
A blue eyed being

Abandoned leaf,
Betrayed by creator
Live free or die?
Not an option.
Veins of skin like cells,
Physique of a spider web, skeleton frail

Lacking a voice,
Nature succumbs to it's surrounding
Alive..
and then the inevitable.
Laughing on it's grassy grave
While the security,
Man
Speaks of the beauty he sees in this day

Judge Wilner had a decision to make. Was it the store owners fault for the distribution of these things or was it the fault of the consumer with bad intentions. What were the regulations on this, anyway? What law ever stated that it is illegal to sell someone's dignity, and put it in the posession of somebody else?
In the old days, this species of a store was easy to come by. Unlike today, where it tends to be an underground business, an individual's dignity was hardly ever their own. Unless, of course, you were a king or queen, sometimes a noble here and there. If you were a peasant, your dignity was bought in part by the rich. Dignity in whole is expensive, but like a stock, parts of you could've been sold to various individuals. If you were a woman, your dignity was owned by a man. And if you were a slave, your dignity wasn't on the market, because it never existed. With time, the distribution of dignity was thrown underground by the constitution and other such acts, but legal limits have yet to be put on it.
The death of the prosecuter's client's daughter was a direct connection between the selling of her dignity and her lack of resiliency. Sure, the person who bought it abused it until all self respect dissolved into thin air. But he had paid full price for it and, legally, it belonged to him. There have been cases like this before, where the individual can bounce back from such a sale and create new dignity to work off of. Considering it is not impossible, why should anyone be persecuted? The judge made the final decision to throw the case out of court.

We're taught in the bible that Eve came from the rib of Adam, and that she was basically his underdog. She followed his orders and she lived for him. Adam set standards for her and she did her best to meet them. Lilith came before her, and was a goddess considered to be evil. Adam commanded her to do something she opposed to, and for this reason she left the Garden of Eden. She is overlooked in the bible and considered evil for disobeying Adam. What isn't known about her, however, is that Adam made the mistake of failing to purchase her dignity. He was under the impression that because she came off vulnerable (naked in an unknown new world), she would listen to him. His thoughts were contradicted, and when creating Eve, he knew better than to make that mistake again. This time, he took sole ownership of her dignity, purchasing it from a serpent who owned a store, knowing it would someday roll in big money.

As you can see, this practice has been acceptable since human kind began. How could the justice system tamper with culture, tradition, and human way? Judge Wilner faced issues equally debatable as this one on a daily basis. In a way, that's what his job description was; The combination of morals, ethics, and laws (moral/ethical or not). Although his conscience told him that his ruling was wrong, he knew he had no other choice. He was to follow the law, and his personal opinion had little say in the outcome of this case. As with the majority of government workers, he turned a blind eye.

1st room- this room
2nd room- bedroom
3rd room- imaginary room

In a nutshell, this room needs to be painted. Wires are hanging out of the cieling, which may or may not be a fire hazard. There seems to be about three unused printers an d some out of use computers on top of file cabinets. Also, the "NO EATING" sign goes unnotticed, because the entire garbage can is filled to the brim with food. Yum. The floors appear to have been put down by an amateur and the windows need a serious cleaning. To top it off, we are being observed by the inhabitants of the room next door.

My bedroom is going to be redone in the summer because of how much it is lacking.

My imaginary room doesn't have walls. So I guess it's not a room. If I could choose, I would live in an open plain where I could see everything, no matter how gross. It's a good way to know the truth and for everyone to be close =]]]]]]

Silly poet,
Did you really think the stars stopped burning when you closed your eyes to sleep?
Silly poet! Violets are violet!
And not all roses are red
Silly poet, the sidewalk doesn't have to end
If you're peter pan, that is
O captain! my captain!
Silly poet, you're talking to the wrong guy
Everyone knows a captain goes down with his ship
Silly poet, I doubt your name is John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt
That is identity theft you know
Silly poet, your words are no comfort
If the baby is going to fall, cradel and all

“Would you like some tea?”
“I would. Thank you.”
“Careful. It’s hot.”
“I usually prefer iced tea.”
“Mmm. I don’t have any.”
“Maybe I can put ice in this tea.”
“But that’s what I’m saying—I don’t have any cubes.”
“Sorry.”
He couldn't drink this tea. It was hot. Hot means scorching of the tongue. As a child, he had been diagnosed with sipa, a rare medical condition that didn't allow him to feel pain. This didn't bother him. In fact, most things didn't as he didnt feel them. He could feel touch, he could feel emotion pain, but physically he couldn't comprehend what this sensation of pain was like. What bothered him was the awkward situations he was put in on a daily basis. In example, is it easier to seem rude to a job interviewer or to share an unfathomable medical condition with them in the first five minutes? Rejecting tea wasn't a considerably bad situation. Try turning down invites for paintball gunning as a kid or being unable to try out for any sport. Or going to the beach, because sand would get into his eye and scratch his cornea without him noticing. Pain may seem negative to most, but many lack appreciation for it and view it as a means of survival.

As a child, he had taken some pride in his disease. He pretended to be superman, and would jump off the swing higher than any of the other children could. When playing "mercy" he would always win. The other kids took awe when he was able to perfect a belly flop at the local pool, without crying afterwards. He had always viewed himself as tough and accepted, rather than a kid with a genetic disease who would suffer from many dillemnas growing up. It wasn't until the end of middle school, when the ability to withstand pain lost its shock value to kids on the playground, that he began to question. What was this thing they called hurt? What was it about this sensation that brought people to tears and made them scream in agony?

pain- physical suffering or distress, as due to injury, illness, etc.

He couldn't help but wonder if one day he would have cancer consume his body and not know it. Would he be on the floor dead from a heartattack without feeling the slightest symptom first? Life could be taken from him before he'd have any inkling of what was about to happen. It's not that he had a fear of the unknown like many anxious people do. It was one hundred percent reasonable, and maybe even probable, that the fears he posessed would come to be true. That left him with two options. Either he could live his life in fear, or he could use his disease to his advantage, like everyone else saw it. Knowing optimism usually wins, he chose the later of the two.

Lorrie Moore's view of writing is probably realistic for people who are trying to be published. From what I hear becoming a writer, whether it be a novelist or journalist, it all hard to accomplish. I've heard much of it comes from luck or who you know rather than skill or style. I guess it's similiar to acting or becoming a singer- I'm sure most cruise ship singers have better voices than Rihanna or Britney spears.

WHERE WAS MONDI!?

The sole purpose in Mondi's tardiness to his creative class was to get Michelle and Gabby mad. Gabby doesn't have a lunch period and Michelle is absent so much that she has to do work all period and basically all of her life. They were absolutely famished from an absence of a good meal. In fact, they only eat well on the weekends because it's the only time when they are free from the stale, B.O reeking dungeons of the town prison. It's almost like an insane ayslum; once you enter the building most of your human rights, except for legal ones (sometimes), are stricken from you. Crazy people are often considered somewhat of the children and responsibility of their care takers. Same concept.
Anyway, Mondi had a nice chat with Mr. Stein. They discussed Indie music, Jessica's annoyingness, and so forth. Stein gave Mondi some advice on the novel he's working on and the rest of their conversation continued on with that note. Notice they were talking about relevent aspects of their life, not the cosine of a triangle. The only time I can think of where I'll ever need to know anything about a triangle is never, but if I were on the softball team, maybe for figuring out the distance between bases. But there's google on my phone for that. I really wish I was eating a sandwich right now. However, we are glad to know Mondi is safe and sound and back to his assigned class doing his job.

The night I killed myself was the first time I had proof of her with this meat packing guy. I figured this must be my hell, my punishment for committing a sin in ending my own life. I am a bird; it's an instinct for me to want to fly free. Instead, I am confined to a metal cage, held down by my past. I had hope that I'd be stored away in a garage somewhere where I would be forgotten. Perhaps my wife and this monster could go on vacation and forget to feed me for a week. Maybe I could even catch some kind of bird disease and leave the world untouched with my presence. The feeling wouldn't be too foreign to me, considering she moved on fast. What I can't learn to accept is that she moved on before I was gone, and that her leaving me would have been inevitable. As a human, I believed my purpose was being the breadwinner, and having her to depend on me. The money I brought home brought us food, it paid the bills, and it didn't win her affection. Looking back, I realize I had no specific purpose, and I was confined to a similar cage as I am now. In this way my human life and bird life coincide.
I could try to fly away into the shimmering endless sky, aimlessly, forgetting my past and concentrating only on my next nest, my next twig of berries, or my next getaway plan from a predator or recreational bullet. I used to go hunting. I didn't even have a reason to shoot a bird. I swear I would've played videogames if I knew the detrimental effects the pull of a trigger causes to small animals such as myself. As much as a cage shields me from the outside world, being free would let me run from my mistakes and guilt. Instead, I am forced to rest in her palm, literally in the palm of her hand, and pretend as if I don't like it. I don't want to want her; it's a strange division between my conscience, subconscience, reality, and fantasy. Where does the line between each really begin?
One day I broke loose and flew around the house. It was the perfect plan to escape. If I had just kept quiet and waited for him to come home, I could've broke free through the door before he knew what had hit him. This was the game plan, until my jealousy and rage kicked in. My bird heart, which already beat a good 900 times a minute, accelerated to a whopping 1000. Instead of fleeing the scene, I made the imulsive decision to shit on his head. It was great. It truly was for the next few hours as I tweeted happily to my and rang bird songs throughout the house. He called me a few vulgar words which only made it better. And then I was back to square one, missing my opportunity because of a human emotion. A bird with the mind of a human. That's hell in itself. I was getting no where through my anger and desire for revenge. That's when I recognized, in the middle of a triumphant chirp, that I had to forgive her for what had transpired if I ever wanted to truly be free as a bird.

Ashley had gotten into the wrong things when she entered highschool. Middle school to highschool was a whole other world for her, and with that came ways for her mind to feel as if it were in another dimension. Kind of like a parallel universe; she was here, but her mind only coincided and didn't fully make it. She was distant from everyone except for the people who helped her detach from feeling, and live inside her head. It's funny how pills the same surface area as a cuticle can change someone's destiny. Ashley's best friend Kristen noticed the change before Ashley herself had. She did notice she had begun to live differently. That doesn't mean that she was about to alter the way she lived. To her, nothing was wrong, and nothing was right. She was numb with monotone. She was another tree in the arctic forest, frozen, serving no unique purpose. The ground was an endless field of snow, with no foot prints of disruption. And thewind blew too hard for her eyes to get a clear view of the sky before they began to tear and she was forced to look down. That was her purpose- to get through the day like she had the day before. Nothing was going to change her except for herself, but she wasnt here; she was in the world her mind had created for her.
Kristen and Ashley had been best friends since they first met in their Kindergarten class and Ashley had cried for her mom. Kristen had comforted her and continued to do so for their ten year friendship, whenever necessary. They had become so close that even their families had meshed. When others saw them, it was assumed they were cousins. Not necessarily sisters due to their differences in hair color and eye pigment, but they seemed to coincide in some way. Their behavior, the beat of their footsteps, their accents on words; most of their mamerisms were similar. This often happens when you surround yourself with another person for an extended amount of time It's even common for a person to resemble their dog or their partner in marriage. So how exactly does a bond like this break? An alteration of mind that only a physical substance has the ability to do. A chemical change that happens from the outside world. It wasn't a change of heart or personality, but some outside force that had this effect on her.
Ashley came from a generic, typical American home, as many of her kind often do. She never had the chance to rebel much when she was younger. Her room's pink wallpapered walls and matching wool carpet had been designed before she was even born. Her wardrobe was updated a good number of times seasonally and her white wood furniture was Pledge sprayed and dusted by the week. The addition of her daily arrival home to half a glass of milk and spongy, moist peanut butter chocolate cookies had left her unable to appreciate and hold value to her everyday privlages. She didn't see the good, and instead yearned for a meaning and purpose, as highschool students have a tendency of doing. The acceptance into a group of kids who shared a common behavior and seemed to form a connection was enough to spark her interest and join something bigger than herself. Although she knew drugs were bad, it wasn't enough to impede her desire. Her inexposure and lack of experience encouraged what transpired, rather than shielding her from it.

“The water is warm but it’s sending me shivers”

People can say all they want that the past doesn’t make up who you are. But what else are you than your past? Everything we know, except instinctual behavior we learn as we grow, and if we know something to be true, our subconscious mind will believe that until proven otherwise. The water could be warm, but if you know water to be cold, you’ll still feel the shivers.
Throughout life, she knew people to leave her. She hadn’t known one to follow through with commitment. A cold, empty void in her left her with detachment and an unknown promise to never get too close to anyone but herself. The clock ticked, there were voices in the street, the TV was on, but none of this involved her. And when the time came for the warmth she should have embraced, she turned it cold with her shoulder.

1. Who are you? Introduce yourself...and be creative about it!2. Why did you sign up for this course?3. What are your favorite types of writing to do?4. What types of writing would you like to experiment with?5. What types of writing do you dislike?6. What do you like to read? (Remember, good writers are good readers!)

My name is Michelle Leibowitz and I don't know what to say about myself because I don't really know myself. You know your brain doesn't stop growing until you're 23 so I have about eight years to go before I get "who i am" sorted out. I do know there's parts of me that I should focus on more and bring to light, but I don't. I used to play the guitar, iceskate, dance, play violin, and READ AND WRITE. I guess I have somewhat of a motivational issue, but maybe I haven't found what my real passion is. Again, I'm giving myself eight years to get that figured out. What worries me is the older I get, the more independent I become. With that comes a difficulty to stay focused when I'm not trying to please anyone but myself.
I'm in "advanced creative writing" which is really challenging compared to regular creative writing. It's quadruple the workload and I don't know how I'm going to handle it. Nah it's the same class, I liked it last year which is why I'm taking it again. It's a good release and it forces me to be creative because I don't do that on my own very often. I like writing about what I feel like writing about at that moment. If I'm given an assignment that I'm not in the mood for, it's extremely difficult to complete it. Mostly I write short stories or short pieces of a long story. I like poetry at times too- it leaves out a lot of unnecessary words. I like reading weird stories that have shock value. =0