Children of Light *Update*

I'm feeling kinda bored since I have no job still! And was looking over my past post. I discovered my unfinished exam short story called Children of Light. Looks like I'm in the writing mood again... I donno if that is a good thing haha. Anyways, stay tuned for the finished version of the story, it shall be exciting writing again. I really missed it!

Here it is.

I find it easier to write my thoughts down when I have nothing to do. When my mind is occupied with thoughts of another kind, I will write frantically -but, with a cause, which is unlike now since I am writing about writing about nothing in particular- and make no sense. Maybe I'll write another poem about life in general or a story about growing up and how it is so hard. By now you have probably realized that I'm making fun of myself. If you have not, then sorry for wasting your time.

I hate how my friends never write on their blogs. I wish they didn't have lives and were more like me!

I complain a lot. I complain about complaining a lot. I think that by pointing out my flaws, somehow that makes them ok. It probably just makes them worse.

I'm going to cut and paste some poems that I wrote for english because I'm too lazy to write some more stuff. -I totally forgot that I started writing a book/novella last summer. I'm probably never going to finish it- I just got an awesome idea for a book! Since there are millions of half-finished books out in the world, I should take some and make a book out of them. The stories would never end, but there would be dozens of blank pages after each story so the reader could just write their own ending... that sounds awful. But, here are some of my half-finished stories so I can pretend that I wrote something on my blog.

This is my favorite half-finished story because it has attitude! Here's I Sold My Soul For Drug Money:

Chapter I – Laced Intentions

“Hi. My name is Johnny.”

“To be honest Johnny, I don’t give a flying fuck. Here.” He shoved a medical mask into the boy’s hands. Johnny didn’t hesitate to put it on. Then the man motioned for the boy to follow. Johnny could smell it in the air; the mask couldn’t prevent it from getting to him. It made him hate himself. The need was killing him and there was no doubt that it would be successful. So, he gave in to it, like he always managed to do after the doubt kicked in and followed the man down the hallway, one that looked like in belonged in a horror movie.

“Your family is dead if you told anyone where you are and what you are doing. Then…” The power that he had over the boy went to his thick head and he paused for a second to intensify the words to follow, turning around to poke his thick finger into Johnny’s gut. “We’ll come after you.” The large gun in the man’s hand told Johnny that this was no empty threat. And with that, he saw himself, bloody and limbless, crawling down this very hallway after being subject to the torture of the big man in front of him. That was enough to silence him for the next millennium.

With his mouth-sewn shut with invisible thread, Johnny matched his speed to the long strides of the man until they reached a large room that was so smoky that the ceiling was practically nonexistent. The first thing that set him back was the amount of people working. Not a sound was heard while they were in the hallway and even now, of the approximately twenty people in the room, not one lifted their head from what they were doing. Johnny could see that this had nothing to do with concentration as he looked back at the gun, one that he knew the man would use and had likely used before.

I guess I have to explain to you how I ended up here, the twenty five year old high school drop out, druggie and loner. It’s that one word, the one substance, and one of the many ways to screw up your life. A very expensive “pass time.” I’m telling you, it’ll explain everything. It reveals the reason behind the twitching, the coughing, the hallucinations and the whole mess that comes as bonus gifts in the package of a cocaine addict. Did you find it in that last ramble? Well here’s another clue for you. Cocaine, cocaine, cocaine and goddamned cocaine.

I’ve been told that if I had finished high school and gotten a “real” job I wouldn’t be an addict, but how does that make any sense? At the risk of coming across retarded, let me reiterate, cocaine is an expensive pass time and mostly only people with “real” jobs can afford to get high off it. But, men like me would sell their soul for a single line. Sadly, what I learned, my soul was worth shit.

“Snap out of it, you dumb fuck.”

And snap I did, as the butt of the gun was jabbed into my side. I tried not to cough up my lungs, while the big man giggled as if the whole “causing internal bleeding” idea amused him.

Once I managed to find my breath, I asked, cautiously, “When can I start?”

“The Boss, in other words “the guy you don’t want to fuck with”, will tell you.”

Nodding, not looking into his eyes, and managing to hide the tears, I once again followed the stupid, ass-faced motherfucker deeper into the depths.

Chapter II – Wasn’t Always a Fuck Up

I may have dropped out of school, but you first have to understand that I grew up in a perfect family in suburbia. I’m not entirely sure if all suburban kids turn to drugs… but now that I think about it, that wouldn’t surprise me if they did. Well, who else would be able to afford the expensive ones?

Meet my mom:

“How many carbs are in juice? Maybe I’ll stop drinking liquids altogether.”

“Mom, what about water?”

“Of course I’ll drink water. I’m not stupid.”

“You are stupid enough to screw the mailman.”

“Yes. And you are smart enough to keep your mouth shut.”

Meet my Father:

“Are you happy son? Cause I didn’t buy you that new bike so you could cry on it.”

“Dad, I think I might be depressed.”

“Son… rich people don’t get depressed. Now go for a ride while I work late with my secretary.... Son…”

“Ya Dad?”

“Good things come to those who keep secrets. Things like tuition to a prestigious school.”

“What I’d like is a soul to sell.”

“You have a soul son. Just like me...”

“…and mom?”

“I’ll pay for the therapist.”

(to be continued....?)

This is a poem that I finished last summer with the intent of giving it to my mom and dad, but I decided against it...

We are all deformed by our views of perfection - a poem

Look at me as I am,

I am your daughter, the fuck up.

You can’t see me if you don’t know what you are looking at.

I may be a tarnish canvas, but you’ve never seen the painting beneath.

Never cared to look, did you?

I’ll give you my heart on paper -- you can eat my soul.

That’s why I give it to you,

I like the pain that you give me,

You like the pain that I get.

Judge who I am before you get to know me

Get to know me, then judge who I have become

You knew me, I changed, the end

I can hear your brain throbbing

Throbbing

Throbbing

Robbing me of wordssss

I can see your eyes darting

Darting

Darting

Starting this sweat

Dripping into my veins

I love you, but I made a mistake.

I write about your forgiveness,

But have yet to receive it

You didn’t forget.

You are there, up on your throne

I am here, all on my own

No one fights for my reputation

I never fought the losing battle that I began

All I did was fall, I have yet to get up

You have your hand on my shoulder

It should be comforting that you’re there

Your warmth should make the coldness in my lungs cease to exist

Your hand is strong

I try to get up

But you are holding me down

I panic

You smile

I cry

You smile

I look at you for help

You smile

I scream

You laugh

I give up

You laugh

I stop breathing

You laugh

I am dying

You laugh

I’m gone

You shake your head

It was my fault you say

It was my fault

It was my mistake

It was my deformity

And that was the end

I was at an end

My mistake made a fucking end

It ripped through to the other side and spilled my guts for the first time,

Sorry, my mistake

Read my suicide note

It will tell you everything,

Just not anything you want to hear.

You never wanted to listen

I told you so many times

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

But, you didn’t believe me

You held my hand

I couldn’t see you, but I knew you were there

You held my hand

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

You held my hand

I couldn’t see, I couldn’t hear

But I could feel the heat of your stare.

The disappointment burning through my lucid skin.

Skin soaked in the aftermath of my mistake.

The mistake that put me here,

With all this voices talking about me,

I’m here!

I’m here!

Aren’t I?

I can speak.

I think… I just wanted to say…

I just wanted to say that I’m sorry.

You let go.

Building Sandcastles_REVISED

I haven't posted in a while, so this goes out to "all you" :) I think I posted this story already, but this is the version that I handed in for English class.

His weary eyes followed the flashing, black bar as it made its way back up to the start of the page. Groaning, he watched as his hours of work were slowly wiped off the computer screen. He took his right forefinger from the backspace and moved his hands through his dark, scruffy mop of hair. Maybe his ex-wife was right. This just isn’t worth it. All the pressure, all the headaches. What is the point? He had nothing to write about because he gave up everything important to him just to pursue his dream. Now, even that is gone.
He pushed off the basement floor, sent the empty chair flying across the dimly lit room and watched as it went crashing into the wall. The sound it made when it hit, told him that the chair had created another dent. Another reminder of his inabilities. The dents were the only things that were reliable and consistent.
Taking off his glasses and placing them next to his notepad on the desk, he began to massage his strained eyes. He had been sitting in the same spot for hours and his back was covered in moist perspiration that had now begun to stick to his green dress shirt. With one hand, he pulled the wet shirt away from his back; with the other he picked up his glasses and put them on. He noticed the fingerprints and dust covering them; he had become unaware of the blurriness after hours of staring at a screen. His wife used to bug him about his dirty glasses.
“How can you possibly see anything with so much grit on your glasses? How many fingers am I holding up?” Jan would say with a loving smile and he would follow along with the charade by pretending to be blind as he groped for her hand.
He fumbled for the banister in the dark with his free hand. Feeling the cool medal hit his fingertips, he grasped onto it and made his way up stairs to make a cup of strong coffee. He hated memories. He hated remembering. He somehow managed to drain it in less than a minute, despite its lava-like temperature. When he went to throw his cup in the sink, adding to the overflow of week old dishes, his eyes caught sight of the front lawn. The lawn was in such bad shape that the people in the community seemed to avoid it as they went for their morning walks. Old people would not stop and talk by it, teenagers would not make out near it, kids would not play on it, and dogs would not even pee on it. The shrubs were once trimmed every week, the grass always cut and the flowers… were now buried beneath years of weeds and neglect. He remembered that his wife had taken care of the flowers. Her once loving and happy face would be replaced with a look of disgust. The last time he saw her she was not too happy either.
“You quit? How are you going to support us as a writer? Why don’t you just ask for your old job back?” Jan asked, getting more and more furious when he repeated the same answer over and over, he had made up his mind.
The fight went on for days, but following a week of quiet seething she found him in the kitchen preparing dinner.
“Fine. You made up your mind. It seems that you have your whole life sorted out. I can’t convince you to listen to me, so I too have made up my mind.” He couldn’t turn to face her, he just nodded. He didn’t say anything to prevent her from leaving. Jan moved out a day later. Her packing had been done long before that night.
So now the bright yellow, romantic, little house on the street had become the depressing, little shack with peeling paint that reminded people that the world was not as perfect as suburbia might suggest.
It was as if there was a neon sign on his door that said: “Hide your eyes, keep your children close, for you just might catch this man’s disease.” He had heard the neighbors talking once, they were an old couple so they had trouble hearing each other and had to practically shout to have a conversation. He listened to their shouting match as they talked about him and his lovely wife, how lucky he had been to find such a caring woman and how happy they had been together before he had a “mid-life crisis”. These people spoke about him as if he had died and the spirit he left behind was who he had become. He had become something to be ignored and forgotten, a horrible and depressing entity that refused to move on, a reminder of failure.
What he really needed was to go outside and breathe fresh air. Maybe a walk would clear his head. He couldn’t remember the last time he had even opened the front door.
Stepping outside, he expected all of his neighbors to poke their heads out their doors just to get a look at the crazy, hermit man. The only thing that happed was that he received an instant headache from the sun. He went back inside to get his sunglasses, which were buried beneath a pile of old newspapers that had replaced his dinner table. He glanced at the date on one of the papers and become conscious of the fact that he had no idea what day it was. Stepping back outside he began walking. His neighbor was having a beer on his front porch. John was waving at him, but he ignored John, kept his head down and walked faster. He really didn’t know where he was going, but stopped went he reached the beach. He saw that the bench was powdered with grains of sand, he brushed some of them off, sat down and then he surveyed his surroundings. There was a young man and woman who were having a picnic. He could hear them laughing and felt the familiar pang of jealously. He turned his head away. There were a few other people. A little boy who was having trouble building a sandcastle, someone he assumed to be the little boy’s mother and a few teenagers swimming in the warm water.
“Hello.”
The voice made him jump and he turned to see who had broken the silence. It was a small woman in her eighties who had sat down beside him. He gave her an awkward smile and turned his eyes to the ocean.
“I’m sorry I scared you. I just thought that you might want some company.” She waited for his reply, but never got one. She looked like she was in pain as she struggled to get up, to leave him to his silence. He felt bad, so he turned and told her to stay. They sat there for a while, each one off in their own little world. The lady turned to him and told him that she had never seen anyone look so sad.
“I thought how odd. It’s such a beautiful day. The sun is so bright. It brings everything alive. See, just look at the ocean.” She said this as she pointed with her finger that quivered from the effort of the motion. He looked, but he could not see the beauty that she could so effortlessly. He lied to her when he nodded his head. It did appear to please the old lady. She once again pointed to various things around the beach and spoke about their beauty. He began to tune her out. He focused on the sand at his feet and started to push it around with the toe of his shoe. He took a quick look beside him and saw that the old lady had gone. He noticed that he still had his sunglasses on and that there was no need for them, so he took them off and put them in his pocket. Then, he went back to pushing the sand.
“Excuse me mister?” He looked up to see the little boy who had been trying to build a sandcastle and his mother standing beside him. “I was just wondering if you had something that I could put on my castle.” He glanced over the little boy’s shoulder to see that he had succeeded in building a sandcastle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was standing. He asked the boy how long it took him to build the castle.
Smiling, the little boy said, “A long time. It kept falling down.” The man asked him why he just didn’t give up. The little boy looked at him like he was nuts and said, “If I gave up every time that the sandcastle fell down, I’d never build one.” The mother added, “Think about it, if every time you built a sandcastle it was perfect, then the excitement of building a perfect castle would fade. The effort makes the finished product much more rewarding. Plus, maybe he’ll be an architect someday.” The mother bent and kissed the top of her son’s blond head, smiling as she brushed sand from her lips with the back of her hand. Convinced that the man didn’t have anything to give him, the boy returned to his sandcastle. The little boy’s mother sat down on the bench.
Once, again both parties were off in their own worlds, at least he thought so. After a while, he noticed her eying him with curiosity. “Are you the man who lives in the little yellow house?” He searched her face, looking for any sign of disgust or horror, but when he did not see either, he nodded his head. “I used to be your neighbor, but when my husband died, my parents forced me to move closer to them. I still cannot resist coming back to the ocean though. It has always held a special place in my memories. I met my husband here.” She smiled at him, but her smile did not suggest sadness as he had expected. She looked more wistful as she turned to the ocean and breathed a great sigh. He could practically see her memories written in her expression and he felt uncomfortable around her vulnerability.
“I always wanted a house like yours, it seemed so perfect behind its white picket fence. It stood there as a monument, so safe from outside influence and I envied you.” After a long pause she continued. “I passed the house today. I didn’t think that anyone lived there anymore. It’s good to know that it’s still serving its purpose.” He looked at her then and thanked her. Laughing she replied, “I have not idea what you would be thanking me for, but you’re welcome.” Shivering she said, “It’s getting pretty cold. The ocean has a way of changing the weather instantly. You better get home.” He watched as the boy and his mother walked away and he couldn’t help but smile. He stayed for a little while, until the sun went down and everyone left the beach to return to warm homes. He told himself that it was his time to go too, so he got off the bench and made his way back to his little, yellow house.
When he got inside, he cleaned his glasses then went down stairs. He fetched his chair from across the room, turned on his computer and began writing. He wrote about pursuing dreams, ones that may lead nowhere, finding people who will support your leaps of faith and the importance of embracing the memories that make you who you are; for without them, one cannot exist. But, more importantly he wrote about a little old lady who saw beauty wherever she looked, a widow who convinced a man to escape his ivory tower and a little boy who built imperfect sandcastles all day long.

Among the Ranks of Other Famous Fat Heads

I was published once again in the newspaper. I got that poem called "What If?" in the August addition. I was very very pissed that the lady who put it in the paper didn't correct the mistake that I pointed out to her in an e-mail. It went something like this:

Before:
While the strong were forced to made a deal with the devil.

After w/ correction:
While the strong were forced to make a deal with the devil.

Then I received an e-mail back that said:

Done. Thanks.

I'm beginning to think that the bitch was laughing at me. If you say that sentence with sarcasm it explains everything. Writing is quiet ironic. You write a sentence or many and they could be taken anyway that the reader wants to take it. Maybe she intended to say, "What's the big deal. You are sixteen and you wrote a poem that sucks. I have better things to do than correct a mistake you should have noticed before you sent it, so ya! Thanks for the tip. I'm gonna go an get a coffee so I can stay awake long enough to kill myself."

It put a damper on a great day, I have to admit. Whatever, it was partly my fault. Geeezzus even when I sent in a picture of my bunny ABIE she spelt her name wrong in the paper. Jessica Shelley's bunny Albie. Albie? As in the racist dragon?

Shrug it off. Shrug it off. Is it possible? My dad read my story in the paper. The one about THAT day. He didn't say anything. I cried in my room. The same as time and time before when my dad lets me down. I shouldn't cry I know, not over him. I'm sick of wondering what it means, but after I told him that I was published again he told me that he could see me famous. Can I see me famous? Naa. I may be a fat head sometimes but I could never do it full time. I told my mom something when she said that I have talent. I said, "It comes and goes." The scary thing about writing is that after you finish a story you always wonder if that's the last one or if there is another, will it be as good? The world is full of the broken glass of broken goals. You know in school when they try to get you to have goals? Well it's all some sort of conspiracy designed to get you to do great things. I'm too lazy. Way too lazy. I could never get a job working with people. For one thing I don't like them and the other, I'd let them down. One thing that people forget about famous people is that they are still people and when they fall or stumble we love it because it reminds us that even golden plated people get scratched by broken glass. I guess deep down some people hide it, but it shows now and then. Stop hiding silly, come out and play. Embrace your jumbled thoughts, if you can gather enough energy to hold them. I know that I'm too lazy to care. How about you?

He Saw Fire Wherever He Looked

A homeless man watched, with curiosity, at the young man across from him. Like an ape, he was covered in hair, and the fact that the ape didn’t look too smart either passed though the homeless man’s mind. He watched closely as if waiting for the ape to stand up, reach over, and strangle him. The man was so concentrated on the ape’s movements that he almost jumped when the ape scratched his arm. The homeless man was not the only person whose attention was drawn to the ape. The strangers’ stares were not hidden; they were openly, and offensively, obvious. The eyes’ were glued to the animal’s face which was covered in scars, that were somewhat hidden beneath a layer of soot. He repeatedly picked at the bubbles of skin on his hands, which exploded with pus. Whenever they did so, a rough laugh bellowed from the ape. He remembered the feeling. The bubbles still burned as if on fire and it made him frivolous with excitement. These sounds that protruded from his belly, made the strangers shiver while they checked their watches, humorously synchronized.
The ball of fire in the sky had fallen by the time the ape stepped off the train and he was greeted with a cold gust of wind that chilled him to the bone. He preferred to play with fire when the eyes were not watching. They were always watching when the sky was ablaze. They relied on fire as he did, given this he chose to avoid hurting anyone with his flames. His hands were starting to itch. He wiped the pus off on his pants and headed towards the flashing sign in a bar’s window. The bar was one of those places where people went if they couldn’t get into the nicer bars, but in most cases you went there if you wanted to get shit faced. A man at the front door allowed the ape in right away and turned to the people in line to deal with their complaints, but stopped himself, the people were not complaining and he smirked. It didn’t surprise him. The ape just looked like one of those guys that you didn’t pick a fight with, if you did, you might as well pick out your coffin and it could be a cheap coffin, something around the size of an empty water jug, because the guy would likely beat you into a bloody pulp.
The ape sat in the corner and bellowed to the bartender to make him something strong. Waiting for his drink to come, the ape’s eyes fixed on his hands again. The waitress arrived with his drink, but he didn’t notice that it had come until he looked up to see the glass on the edge of the scuffed tabletop. Finishing his drink, the ape looked across the smoke filled room, when his eyes fixed on a large man who stood up from his table and walked to the bar.
He knew the ape had seen him. That was whom he was hired to find. He began counting which gave the ape some time to come to the bar himself, but after exactly three minutes he turned, walked over and sat at the ape’s table.
“How ya been?” He asked rhetorically and with a cheerful voice as if they were old friends. The only thing that proved the falseness of his mask were his piercing eyes, which at the time were shooting daggers at the ape, who chose not to answer.
“Do you have a name?” This time the man spoke with apparent slowness, as if it’s very point was to send the ape over the edge. The question seemed to make the man smile, a smile which grew bigger and bigger after every second of silence. After a few moments, the ape saw who this man really was and panic rose up his stomach, up his throat and into his mouth, and then he recognized that it was actually vomit. The back of the ape’s throat was stinging. The man was getting too comfortable with his charade and the ape knew more questions were to come. The ape swallowed the vomit and stood up. The man stopped smiling.
“You are not supposed to leave the facility.” And with that, the man picked up his cell phone and dialed a number. The ape did not stick around to find out who would pick up on the other end. He grabbed the table, ignoring his bubbled hands, and flipped it, crushing the man on the other side. He couldn’t stop himself, his eye’s caught sight of a whiskey bottle and he smashed it on the man’s head. Then lit a match. The flame stopped time and it felt heavier and heavier in the ape’s hand. It became too much to tolerate, so he let it drop.
Without looking back and with screams ringing in his ears, the ape ran through the door and down the street. He was choking on his tears, but didn’t dare stop to catch his breath. He had hurt again. He swore he would never hurt again. His hands were on fire and the scent of burning flesh reached his nostrils. And there was no need to remember, the feeling came back again, and he was laughing.
The motel room was the best the ape could find in his condition. He needed a place to hide away from the men who would come for him, the men that would take his freedom away. Like firemen, they would extinguish his fires and take him away. Then put him back in a room where he could only watch as the bubbles on his hand disappeared and the feeling went away. So, he sat on the bed of the motel room and tried desperately to remember the feeling as it was now, to make sure that he would never forget it. And so, he wouldn’t have to hurt again to get it back.
The television was on. The ape did not remember turning it on. It was the news, in the hospital they were not allowed to watch the news. The ape was immediately fixed to it. The sound was off and a video that was unsteady replaced the face of the pretty news lady. The ape managed to catch -SCAPE FROM ZOO, CAGE LEFT OPEN, as it rolled across the screen. The footage showed a gang of gunmen who were chasing after some kind of animals. The cameraman was running. The ape, with a smile on his face and transfixed to the screen, moved closer to the edge of the bed as if the motion would improve the quality of the video. The cameraman caught up with the gunmen, just in time to see one of the men shoot a monkey in the head. The ape didn’t look away. He wanted to, but knew that if he did, wherever he looked, he would see the very same image in front of him. Just as cruel and as painfully blunt, as it was a few second before. Wherever he looked he would see innocent eyes, eyes that looked into a barrel of a gun and could not fathom why they were having the right to see taken away. All the animals could do was run and the ape man screamed as the second monkey received a bullet in the head by the same gunman. Running got them nowhere. They were running in this world, this hell we created for them. Punishing them for our inability to understand that all life is equal. The gunmen couldn’t see that the animals’ hearts beat like theirs, thought the ape, the one thing that gunmen ignored as they killed them and smiled as the blood pooled at their feet, the feet of lesser men.
The ape could not stand it anymore. His screams were not unheard by the other guests as he picked up the television and threw it against the wall. It fell to the ground in a heap of glass and drywall. But the picture was not gone. It filled the screen again. The ape lit the bed on fire and crawled into a ball on the ground, his eyes still fixed on the television. Seeing the innocent eyes, just as the world went black, eyes that did not look into the gunman’s, they looked to the sky, into beauty and to freedom.
That’s how the young man was found, almost burned alive and staring off into space. The doctor gave him a shoot to put him to sleep and returned him to the facility. Where he could only watch as the walls bled and his hands burned with imaginary fire, while waiting patiently, living day after day, year after year, until the world went black.

Building Sandcastles

This is the short story I submitted to that FOCUS newspaper yesterday night:

Building Sandcastles

His weary eyes followed the black bar as it made its way back up to the start of the page. Groaning, he watched as his hours of work were slowly wiped off the computer screen. He took his right forefinger from the backspace and moved his hands through his dark, scruffy mop of hair. Maybe his ex-wife was right. He pushed off the basement floor, sent the empty chair flying across the dimly lit room and watched as it went crashing into the wall. Taking off his glasses and placing them next to his notepad on the desk, he went up stairs and made a cup of strong coffee. He somehow managed to drain it in less than a minute. His eyes caught sight of the state of his lawn when he went to place his cup in the sink, which was overflowing with week old dishes. The lawn was in such bad shape that the people in the community seemed to avoid it as they went for their morning walks. The shrubs were once trimmed every week, the grass always cut and the flowers… The flowers weren’t dead like they were now… He remembered that his wife had taken care of the flowers. Her face would be marked with displeasure. The last time he saw her she wasn’t too happy either.

“How are you going to support us as a writer? Why don’t you just take that job at my brother’s company?” she asked. Getting more and more furious when he repeated that he had made up his mind. The fight went on for days, but following two weeks of quiet seething she found him in the kitchen preparing dinner.

“Fine. You made up your mind. It seems that you have your whole life sorted out. I can’t convince you to listen to me, so I too have made of my mind.” He didn’t say anything to prevent her from leaving. She moved out a day later.

What he really needed was to go outside. He couldn’t remember the last time he had opened the front door.

Stepping outside, he got an instant headache from the sun. He went back inside to get his sunglasses, which were buried beneath a pile of old newspapers that had piled up on his dinner table. He glanced at the date on one of the papers and become conscious of the fact that he had no idea what day it was. Stepping back outside he began walking. His neighbor John Nelson was having a beer on his front porch. John was waving at him, but he ignored John, kept his head down and walked faster. He really didn’t know where he was going, but stopped went he reached the beach. He first saw a bench powdered with grains of sand, he brushed some of them off, sat down and then he surveyed his surroundings. There was a young man and woman who were having a picnic. He could hear them laughing and felt the familiar pang of jealously. He turned his head away. There were a few other people. A little boy who was having trouble building a sandcastle, someone he assumed to be the little boy’s mother and a few teenagers swimming in the warm water.

“Hello.”

The voice made him jump and he turned to see who had broken the silence. It was a small woman in her eighties who had sat down beside him. He gave her an awkward smile and turned his eyes to the ocean.

“I’m sorry I scared you. I just thought that you might want some company.” She waited for his reply, but never got one. She looked like she was in pain as she struggled to get up, to leave him to his silence. He felt bad, so he turned and told her to stay. They sat there for a while, each one off in their own little world. The lady turned to him and told him that she had never seen anyone look so sad.

“I thought how odd. It’s such a beautiful day. The sun is so bright. It brings everything alive. See, just look at the ocean.” She said this as she pointed with her finger that quivered from the effort of the motion. He looked, but he could not see the beauty that she could so effortlessly. He lied to her when he nodded his head. It did appear to please the old lady. She once again pointed to various things around the beach and spoke about their beauty. He began to tune her out. He focused on the sand at his feet and started to push it around with the toe of his shoe. He took a quick look beside him and saw that the old lady had gone. He noticed that he still had his sunglasses on and that there was no need for them, so he took them off and put them in his pocket. Then, he went back to pushing the sand.

“Excuse me mister?” He looked up to see the little boy who had been trying to build a sandcastle and his mother standing beside him. “I was just wondering if you had something that I could put on my castle.” He glanced over the little boy’s shoulder to see that he had succeeded in building a sandcastle. It wasn’t perfect, but it was standing. He asked the boy how long it took him to build the castle.

Smiling, the little boy said, “A long time. It kept falling down.” The man asked him why he just didn’t give up. The little boy looked at him like he was nuts and said, “If I gave up every time that the sandcastle fell down, I’d never build a sandcastle.” The mother added, “Think about it, if every time you built a sandcastle it was perfect, then the excitement of building a perfect castle would fade. The effort makes the finished product that much nicer.” The mother bent and kissed the top of her son’s sandy blond head. Convinced that the man didn’t have anything to give him, the boy returned to his sandcastle. He watched as the boy walked away with his mother and he smiled. He stayed for a little while, until the sun went down and everyone left the beach to return to warm homes. He told himself that it was his time to go too, so he got off the bench and made his way home. This time around he waved to John, who was still sitting on his porch.

Going down stairs, he fetched his chair from across the room, turned on his computer and began writing. He wrote about pursuing dreams, ones that may lead nowhere, finding people who will support your leaps of faith and the importance of sunglasses. But, most of all he wrote about a little old lady who saw beauty wherever she looked and a boy who built imperfect sandcastles all day long.

The Ninth Step

Singing along in her head to a song she really didn't know the name to, Ann stopped on every other step to listen to the sounds coming from downstairs. The stairs were illuminated up until the ninth step, but after this, a shadow cloaked the final five. She could see no further. The song had gone. Ann was not surprised by split between the darkness and the light, yet she was still not prepared with the choice she was forced to make. As she turned towards the bottom of the stairs, a faint sound of nonsense coming from the television could be heard. She pictured her family's faces. Faces frozen as they followed the actions of the characters they had grown to accept as a part of our home. Their emotionless faces burned her eyes as she once again turned towards the dark steps waiting, yet wanting.

Ann was odd. After talking to her, even if for a few minutes, anyone would come to that conclusion. The fact was that she really did not like other people. Ann was just the type of person who preferred to read, rather than have a conversation. In her opinion, the shit that came from peoples' mouths seemed to insult the English language. "Loner", "hermit" and "anti-social freak." Ann no longer had a name. The idea pleased her. She found no fault in the concept of being alone. The funny thing was that it was not Ann who was angered by these people. These people were angered by her very presence. In their opinions, Ann was different, she had become an oddity. An unknown creature walking amongst a running crowd, talked about less and less until she had disappeared altogether.

For years and years Ann had been making the choice to travel the line between steps 9 and 10. Today was no different, except she would be returning to normality in a few minutes. She only crossed to get her sweater. Ann planned to take a walk. She needed to escape.

Who is Ann? Many teenagers go through the same phases and always think that they are alone. Ann was a prime example. She was not the type to do drugs or cut herself. These she believed, killed the only valuable part of the body, one's brain. It was later discovered that Ann's pain was caused by her severe depression. She was never helped because , well, she did not talk about her brain. It was hers. Many of the same people who called her names claimed that she was a great person, quiet though. Ann was the only person who really knew what thoughts were raging a war inside of her.

The creature got into her head. It had come back again and she had to go somewhere. Usually she froze in place when it came, but this time was different. Ann was removed from herself. The purpose of living had left, yet again. But, then, I guess it was never really there in the first place, just the fake image of what people should strive for. Ann always wanted to live in the forest. There were no people, only other creatures. The mindless talk would be gone forever. And when it was her time, it would be natural, the way it was intended. Her remains would fertilize the soil and any trace of her would be swallowed up as well. But, she couldn't live in a forest.

Ann stopped on the side of the road. She waited until she could not hear any cars coming. With her eyes closed she took one step. One tear fell soundlessly to the pavement. Another step. Ann's stomach was heaving. A third step. her family's faces stung her through the darkness of her eyelids. Four. Five. Her heart beat rapidly. Six. Not once did she regret the seventh or the eighth, as her chances grew smaller and smaller. There were no tears as she lifted her right foot to complete her ninth step. No More Pain

The driver had no time to react as he plowed straight into, what he assumed to be, a deer that had found its way onto the highway. He continued. His car was not damaged and someone else would deal with the carcass. Poor creature he thought, but the driver was in a hurry.

Back in Ann's room, her door was left open and her light left on from her hurried retreat. The last five steps were illuminated down to the ninth step where Ann had paused for that split second, while a unnamed tune played in her head. Darkness ruled as the door slammed shut just as the car slammed into Ann, ending her song and ending the war of thoughts, which in the end killed her and splattered the only valuable part of her body across the pavement.

THE END

...?

This story does not have an end. It goes on forever without purpose or point. Many die along the way. Decaying as they do, the pictures they take will be long lost. Smile for the camera, we all want to remember who you were. Diseases takes over natural death. They struggled and fought for their lives, but as many efforts go, they were futile. Stories about their end lasted longer than they did. They distracted themselves to death. You see, their END was not THE END. Their arrogance caused them to be unaware that they were alone. Alone in their beliefs that they were the superior race. Many took their own lives, but some lasted until the end. They finally got to see the extent of the wounds they caused. TO BE ALONE AND AWAY FROM THE TRUE PICTURE, THAT CANNOT BE TAKEN BY A CAMERA AS EVERYONE FAKES A SMILE. THEY WANT TO BE REMEMBERED AS A HAPPY PERSON WHO DID NOT THINK THESE THOUGHTS ABOUT THEIR END. I AM THE PHOTOGRAPHER. I AM NOT SMILING