A Cumulation of Words

One: My Best Pieces

• 9/11, A Day I Can't Remember
• This piece was written after interviewing my parents about what they experienced on September 11th, 2001 when the World Trade Center in New York was attacked. I was just a baby, so I don't remember it at all.
• Rendition of Archie Smith, Boy Wonder
• When Harris Burdick disappeared, he left many unfinished pieces behind. I finished this one for him, or at least... added to it.
• Heads Spinning
• These are poems I wrote under the influence of impressionistic art by Rene Margritte.
• Madness
• My obsession with post-apocalyptic and dystopia fiction came out in this piece when I wrote about the end of the world. 
• Breaker of Chains
• This is a poem about trying to grow up under the oppression of overbearing parents who want you to stay a little girl forever.
• Nightmare
• If I didn't make it clear how much I love my sister before, perhaps I did with this piece.
• Cessna Moments
• Writing this piece was like doing twenty loopty-loops in a 2-seater Cessna airplane.

Two: Other's Writing

• Connor Rothschild's Blog
• I recently discovered a classmate's political blog and read through a lot of his opinion pieces.
• Audacious Adventures of MBE
• I read a lot of M'Kenna's pieces as she posted them, such as: Picture and Poems, Flee Market Stories, and Driving In The Country. She is a very talented writer and always speaks from the heart.
• DawgWithABlog
• Many of us laughed at Ben Lemon's comedic stories of Rico Sanchez, a talking Giraffe who has had many adventure at the end of Ben's pencil. Tears On My Spots was probably my favorite.

Three: Setting Up My Blog

• I loved the experience of setting up my blog. It was great that I was allowed to personalize it the way I wanted to and I have a lot of creative freedom. I choose "Sampling Feelings" because I liked the idea of combining a verb and a noun that don't typically go together. I was inspired by Mrs. Fraser's personal blog name, "Nesting Notions." I wish to continue writing on the blog. Although, my pieces will be less academic and more on topics that I feel like writing about.

Four: The Journey of Journaling

• The things I wrote in my journal were unpolished, unedited and not something I wish to share with others. I wrote down my thought and opinions and often when off on tangents with no direction. Journaling helped me get my thought together and was a way of planning out what I really wanted to say. I like the idea of having rough drafts, so I will continue writing down my thoughts that way even if it's not in a journal.

Five: Journal Piece, Uncovered

• In the summer of 1897, my brother Tom and I left our farms and families behind to seek Gold in the Klondike Valley. Men far and wide were dropping everything to seek their fortune in the dangerous Alaskan country. The journey was difficult, but actually finding gold was the really hard part. We had invested our life's savings in a gold-finder machine, but after three months of looking, but we still have nothing. Tom was beginning to lose hope, but I knew out luck was about to turn around to turn around. We ventured deeper and deeper into the uncharted Yukon territory, where no man had yet to venture. This brought more challenges, and many literal road blocks. We ended up leaving the machine behind as it was to difficult to transport. A few more days past, and even I was growing weary of our trek. We were about to forget the whole thing and turn around, when I saw it. The yellow nugget, our saving grace.

Six: Cessna Moments

When my mother was a little girl, she would skip church with her grandfather every Sunday and go flying in his blue and white, 2-seater Cessna airplane. The empty field behind her house doubled as a landing strip, so he would just cruise up to the house and pick her up. They would fly for hours at a time, and talk, and tell stories, and laugh. They would fly through the clouds, even though they weren’t supposed to. He would sometimes pass off the controls to her and let her fly the plane, placing a tremendous amount of trust in a little girl with no pilot’s license.

My mom was the first-born grandchild and the only granddaughter for many years, and therefore reserved the right as Granddaddy’s favorite, the Golden child.  In his eyes, she could do nothing wrong. When something bad happened, it was always everyone else’s fault, never hers. He almost never took any of his other four grandchildren up in the plane, instilling a sense of pride and superiority in my mom.

 My Granddaddy was the type of man that enjoyed hearing himself speak, but my mother liked the sound her own voice more. They made a good pair. When flying, they would discuss religion, politics, her future, and his past. He probably told her about the time he got shot in order to win her grandmother back, after she had broken up with him; or the time he entered a boxing competition and beat one of the future winners of the golden gloves; or how he had the highest IQ of anyone in Harrison, AR. I imagine my mom, a girl of seven or eight, learning how to voice her own thoughts and opinions with him for the first time, and he telling her why she was wrong and what she should think instead. She was very inquisitive, and asked him a lot of questions that he didn’t know the answer to, which was probably a rarity for him. As a child, she wanted to be exactly like Granddaddy. Strong, successful, powerful, and kind without others knowing he was kind.

Granddaddy purchased the Cessna when he retired, at the age of 50, after making his fortune and passing his business off to his eldest son, Mike. He firmly believed that anything worth doing, was worth doing to perfection. He was also a bragger. So when he aced his pilot’s license test, he told everyone how he'd received the highest score on the state of Arkansas, a 100%. Flying was one of the few things he really enjoyed in his life. But after his second heart attack, he was forced to give up his license; a bird without his wings.

Despite the sadness of never flying that Cessna again, Granddaddy helped shape my mother into the assertive, but caring, adventurous spirit that she is today.  Despite not having the ability to take our own flight, my mother and I have had plenty of our own “Cessna moments.”

Seven: Creative Writing and it's Place in My Life

• This class has challenged me to get out of my comfort zone and write things that I a) normally wouldn't write, and b) had never thought of writing. I learned a lot about myself as we worked through the various areas of study. I wrote some pieces that didn't really seem like me and I got a feel for what i actually do like writing about. This is different from other classes because of it's informality, full creative freedom, and broad topics. I will incorporate the lessons I've learned from this into all my writing in the future.

Eight: To My Fellow Writers

• If this class has taught me anything, it's that we have to constantly soak up the world around us. We have to live outside of our comfort zones and explore those parts of ourselves and others that we're afraid to see. If I could go back and change something, it would be to get to know more of you. Look around today, on our last day, I realized that I hadn't gotten to know all of you the way I would've like to. Each and every one of you offered new and unique perspective on life, love, loss, and so much more. Even if I didn't get to know all of you in person, I got to know you through your writing. Thank you for sharing.

Writing As A Gift

I wrote a letter to M'Kenna, but I can't share the contents of the letter as she has requested that I not divulge any information about it. She wants seal it shut and open it in a year when her altered book is returned to her. 
But rather than waste this perfectly great post on what I would've given as a gift, allow me to share the letter my twelve year old sister wrote for me. Thanks Sissy!

Revision #3

Stuffing balls, green bean casserole, pecan pie, turkey and ham, corn on the cob, sweet potato casseroles, real mashed potatoes and gravy, BBQ meatballs, deviled eggs, more stuffing balls, and a handful of other side dishes were what awaited us every year for Thanksgiving at Grandma Jeanette's house. It was my favorite holiday. It was the one time that that side of the family ever real came together. My cousins would play games in the living room; my Papa would tell jokes and teach everyone card tricks; the adults would spend most of the night standing in the doorway of the kitchen, sneaking food when they thought no one was looking. Nana would slave in the kitchen for days with me, the handy side kick, keeping her company. My job mainly consisted of doing the dishes and testing the food.

Of course, this was before her husband came down with a nasty case of Alzheimer's, and the flower shop closed, and her husband's children quit calling her family and showing up at her home for major holidays. Before she had to visit her dying husband in a nursing home every day, just like she'd had to do with her first husband. Before his disease had driven everyone but her away and she was left to take care of him, alone. Before he died and she moved to a sunny paradise in hopes of finding happiness again and improving her own health. Before Thanksgiving became a haphazardly planned congregation of random people, that I didn't even know.

A small turkey, canned corn, a store bought cheesecake, a few casseroles, and a bunch of foreign dishes brought by strangers. This is what our grand meal had been reduced to. It was no party. It was stuff and cold, and lacked familiarity. I felt like the pilgrims, sharing a meal with people who's customs were alien to me. It was no longer my favorite holiday, as no Thanksgiving was complete without my grandma.

This Thanksgiving dry-spell lasted three circulations of the earth, before my grandma began coming home for Thanksgiving and cooking with me again. Except this time, she put me in charge. She was now my side kick, tasting my food. Thanksgiving never returned to it's grandeur, but the warmth crept back into the holiday, and I realize the only thing I'd been missing was my Grandma.

I am so thankful for my Grandma, and the warmth she brings into my life. She makes me feel important and like I can do anything I set my mind to. She's been through a lot, but she still found her way back to me and our Thanksgiving tradition.

Revision #2

"I swear I have a coupon in here somewhere," Beth said as she dug around hurriedly through her giant, messy purse. She felt really bad, but her paycheck wouldn’t come through until Monday. She was living off nickels and dimes, and it was only Friday night.  The worst thing about being in college was not having any money, especially on a weekend. She was 19, and beautiful. She should've been having the time of her life, but, instead, she was struggling to find enough change to pay for her groceries. Beth, like your average college student, was broke. She hadn’t yet gotten the hang of managing her money and she liked going out with her friends too much to care. But now, it was catching up with her. She was shoulders deep in library fines, bills, and student loan debt, and had nowhere to run.

“Your total is $9.54, Miss.” The cashier was getting noticeably agitated as he gazed at the long line behind Beth. He’d probably had to deal with people like her all day, but that’s what he got for working so close to campus. 

“Ahhh ha!” She yanked out the stack of coupons she’d cut from the newspaper and sorted through them until she found the buy one-get one free she’d been looking for. She triumphantly handed over the paper, along with a handful of change. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” she said with a smile. The gathered her plastic bags in both arms and strode quickly out the automatic doors, trying not to think about how she would open her car door with full hands. She could barely see over the mountain she was holding.

Revision #1

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. When I look at my past self, I see a stranger, reeking with the purity and ignorance of youth. She worried little, and laughed often. Her heart was fragile and her ego was huge. She exists still, but only in memory. 



She is a girl of sixteen, with bronze hair and tender brown eyes. She watches movies with her little sister and goes on dates with tall brunette boys with red cheeks. She sings in her car on the way home, and laughs at herself when she forgets the words. She is oblivious to the catastrophe that is about to turn her whole life upside-down.


When it happened, families abandoned their cars in the streets and ran for safety, when they still thought that there was one.


This world ended and a new one began. A world, in which purity, stupidity, and weakness got you killed. Or worse. This once happy-go-lucky, clueless girl was forced to open her eyes, and see the world that had been left to her.


First came the wave. It wiped out the power, and destroyed cities. People were whisked away in the blink of an eye, along with all evidence that they had existed.

Then came the drought. For two years, not a drop of rain fell on the earth. People fought over the water that remained. Once that was gone, we started losing all of our other resources. Many plants and animals died off because of dehydration, and many more were taken by the wild fires.

Food shortages made rationing necessary for the countries that were structured enough to enforce it. And for those that couldn’t, civil war, anarchy, and chaos followed. Hundreds of millions died all over the world.
What was left of Canada and the United States created the North American Alliance in an attempt to gather together what little strength we had left. While much of the world died, the NAA survived.

Then came the epidemic. A plague unlike anything we’d ever seen. It came quick and silent, taking thousands in the first night alone. It would start with a fever that would last a few hours. Then your veins would turn black, and blood would run from most of your orifices. By that point, it would only be a few minutes before the body shut down and you stopped breathing. Boarders shut down, and quarantine and curfews were enforced. I came to understand that people don’t like to be caged, even for aims of safety. Violence ensued as more and more people got sick.

By this point, in America, most government leaders had abandoned their posts and sought solitary refuge in their private underground bunkers. The military came in and essentially took control. They told us that the President was giving orders from a remote location, but no one actually knew if that was true. All we knew was that the world as we’d known it was dead.

Now, all I could do was close my eyes and think back to how simple my life had been before the madness. How, in the morning, I would wake up and eat breakfast with my sister and our parents, then go to school. I missed school. I missed my friends. I missed my car and my puppy and even Mrs. Paulson. Who knew what happened to her?

I closed my eyes, head dropping, like a person drunk for so long she no longer knows she's drunk, and then, drunk, awoke to the world which lay before me.

Giving Thanks

Stuffing balls, green bean casserole, pecan pie, turkey and ham, corn on the cob, sweet potato casseroles, real mashed potatoes and gravy, BBQ meatballs, deviled eggs, more stuffing balls, and a handful of other side dishes were what awaited us every year for Thanksgiving at Grandma Jeanette's house. It was my favorite holiday. It was the one time that that side of the family ever real came together. Nana would slave in the kitchen for days with me, the handy side kick, keeping her company. My job mainly consisted of doing the dishes and testing the food.

Of course, this was before her husband came down with a nasty case of Alzheimer's, and the flower shop closed, and her husband's children quit calling her family and showing up at her home for major holidays. Before she had to visit her dying husband in a nursing home every day, just like she'd had to do with her first husband. Before his disease had driven everyone but her away and she was left to take care of him, alone. Before he died and she moved to a sunny paradise in hopes of finding happiness again and improving her own health. Before Thanksgiving became a haphazardly planned congregation of random people, that I didn't even know.

A small turkey, canned corn, a store bought cheesecake, a few casseroles, and a bunch of foreign dishes brought by strangers. This is what our grand meal had been reduced to. It was no party. It was stuff and cold, and lacked familiarity. I felt like the pilgrims, sharing a meal with people who's customs were alien to me. It was no longer my favorite holiday, as no Thanksgiving was complete without my grandma.

This Thanksgiving dry-spell lasted three circulations of the earth, before my grandma began coming home for Thanksgiving and cooking with me again. Except this time, she put me in charge. She was now my side kick, tasting my food. Thanksgiving never returned to it's grandeur, but the warmth crept back into the holiday, and I realize the only thing I'd been missing was my Grandma.

Lost in the Past

Benjamin Alfred Wallace was an esteemed, well respected politician in the city of Brighton, England. He was only in his early twenties, but already had the support of many and was on the road to becoming a member of parliament. He was an ambitious man, and often put his career above all else.

Orae Mae Engler was the daughter of a rich textile manufacturer. She came from a long line of businessmen, and her father would one day marry her off to a man worthy of his inheritance. He had only one son, a handicapped boy of ten who rarely saw the light of day. He was kept out of sight, and few even knew he existed. He would never be able to fill his father's shoes.

Brighton was well known for it's parties and love for pretty things. New Year's Eve, the most important people in Brighton enjoyed a night of celebratory vices and dancing at the home of a Lord.

Orae and her sister, Winifred, were aloud to accompany their parents to these festivities. Orae was renown for her beauty and more than one married man at the party was caught gazing as she walked past. Noticing this, her father decided to use it to his advantage and began talking her up to the eligible bachelors. Before she knew it, she was being bombarded by men seeking dances and even some seeking more. Fat men, old men, young men, skinny men, shy men, proud men, and every other type of man crowded her until her was backed into a corner.

That's when the balcony door opened from behind her, and she fell into the arms of Benjamin. Quickly, they fled for the hedges and escaped the brigade. Benjamin knew how silly it was to avoid the party, but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to leave her side. She was a whirlwind of surprises he knew would endanger his plans, but in his heart he knew that she was more important than any career ever could be.

Orae was enamored with the way he spoke about his passions. They spent the remainder of the night strolling the gardens and talking about their lives. She told him about her brother; he, about his ambitions. Their conversations seemed to require no effort; and when their hands found each other, it seemed like the world had fallen into place.

After the party, they conversed mainly through letters. They occasionally met in secret, but acted as if there was nothing between them in public. Orae's father would never have given her to a politician, and Benjamin couldn't endanger his reputation by associating himself with factory man, as rich as he may be. However, the wrongness of their secret relationship only made their hunger for each other stronger.

In 1978, Angus James Wallace was born, in secret. He was barely a week old, when he was stolen from his mother's arms and whisked away to distant relatives in Southwick. He took their last name, and Benjamin Wallace's name was never mentioned again. His childhood was a happy one, and he was very close with his adoptive parents and siblings. Orae often visited Angus, until she was married off to another rich business man who would inherit her father's company and moved hundreds of miles away.

Angus never knew who his father was, but Benjamin knew who he was. He kept tabs on the boy, and always felt a need to know that he was safe and happy, even into his adulthood. When Benjamin died, an unmarried man, he left his fortune to Angus.

9/11, A Day I Can't Remember

September 11, 2001

I was only a toddler, asleep in my crib and utterly clueless to the events of that horrific morning.
My father had the morning off, and was still in his underwear when my mother called him. "Oh my god, turn on the television. We're under attack." That morning, as he watched the second tower fall, he was overwhelmed by shock, like much of the rest of the world. By the afternoon, he felt confused as to what had actually happened and frustrated at how little he knew. He felt hopeless and like he couldn't protect his family. By the evening, anger had taken place of all other feelings, and he had decided, along with three of his friends, that he would enlist and go kill whoever was responsible for this attack. At that time, he hadn't even known who that would be. Thankfully, those feelings slowly went away and he didn't enlist. My life would have been much different had he done that. 

By the time I could really understand what had happened, years had pasted and we had basically gone to war. I remember being five or six and asking my mom if we were in the middle of a war. I remember asking who we were at war with, why were at war, how long the war had been going on. Most of her answers were vague, or at least they seemed that way. I don't think anyone really had the answers then. I don't think anyone really has the answers now.

Now I'm a teenager, looking back on a day that I don't remember. I'm confused, frustrated, without hope. Terrorism seems more frequent now, at least to me. Last Friday, there was an attack on Paris. My generation doesn't trust anyone. We live in a world of doubt and fear. Our futures look dark, and we don't know when another attack will take place.t 

The Hunt for Photos

 Madison unleashes her profanity in the middle of her cooking class, while Jane stands by with an expression the shows how little she is surprised. It can be inferred that this isn't Madison's first outburst. #unguardedcomedy

 The one and only, Tamara Abramovitz stands alone against the ominous second block trigonometry class. She somehow manages to tame the beastly children, and actually teach them something most Math teachers before her have failed at. #becauseshecares

 The lovely Mrs. Fraser holds a bunny while encouraging and challenging the creative minds of her students. Most everyone wants to be like Mrs. Fraser. Her students carry an exuberant amount respect for her and deeply appreciate that she treats them like adults and human beings rather than cows to be herded. #idol

A book written in another language; a universal language one could say. People all over the world read it, speak it, and listen to it. This particular piece was written by a grouchy, old, deaf man. #classic

 This is a square that helps disabled and crippled people open doors. Without it, their lives would be a lot more difficult than they already are. If I were in their position, it would be a relief to see this square when wanting to enter a building. #innovationpositive

 A circular clock utilized by many and appreciated by few. One might wonder what genius came up with the idea of the circular clock, or even who came up with the concept of time and organized it the way that it is now. #wheresstevenhawkingwhenyouneedhim

 A panorama of the Kickapoo football field where the most important events take place. When the sun sets and the lights come on every Friday, many students rejoice. There's nothing like the feeling of getting lost in the excitement of a crowd. #FNL

"Come to Gardening Club- Monday after school in Mr. Moore's room- S104!" The indistinguishable handwriting of Mr. Moore, a science teacher and cancer survivor. He has love for all things that grow and cares deeply about all life. #maytheplantsbewithyou

 

Kickapoo's only patch of greenery lies in the courtyard in the history hallway. Watching the plants grow and change throughout the year bring comfort to the students that walk past it everyday. #savethecourtyards

 Many decorate their instrument cases in the music classrooms, but one of the most beloved belongs to a sophomore cellist. #cookiemonster?

 A dinosaur lives in the science wing. He got his head stuck in the wall and now he guards the stairs, eating anyone who gets too close. Freshman tend to disappear a lot in this area of the building. #youvebeenwarned

 This chair sits right outside the rehearsal room of the Kickapoo Orchestra. The butts of many people have sat in this chair, including those who have left us for bigger and better things like college, or retirement. #thechairremembers

 Many dreams are killed here, in the doorway of 239. That may seem harsh, or uncalled for, but it's also the truth. Algebra II is the death of joy and the creator of anxiety attacks. #evil

Globes are beautiful. Someone had to draw every line of one of these a long time ago. Every mountain range, shore line, and country boundary had to be map out. #isthatthesovietunion?

 In this picture, you can see the faint outline of last year's senior prank. While administration tried there very hardest to scrub the ejaculating penises from the sidewalks and outer walls, there were a few that refused to be hidden so easily. The remnants of the class of 2015 will forever be etched on these walls. #hidethespraypaint

Spooky Season: The Tootsie Incident.

As you reach into the bag of candy, you think you hear a voice saying, “Pick me, pick me!” The voice seems to be coming from the tootsie roll you just moved to the side. It is the sad, neglected piece of candy you always avoid when rummaging through your mound of treats on Halloween night.

You're exhausted and you're high on sugar. There's a good chance that the combination is making you hallucinate. A tootsie roll? Talking? There's just no way. But then you examine the candy more carefully, and see that it has eyes, a mouth, and ears.

Freaked out, you drop the candy and run to tell your parents, who are still giving out candy to the late night Trick-or-Treaters. They shrug off your peculiar news and continue their yearly ritual of watching Casper and eating roasted pumpkin seeds. You’re discouraged and are questioning, again, if what you saw and heard was real.

 You tentatively walk back into the bedroom you ran out of, and look for the discarded tootsie roll, but you can’t find it anywhere. It’s gone. You decide that you’ve lost your appetite for sugar for the night and head to bed. You sleep soundly throughout the night, except for the tootsie roll nightmare. The tootsie has grown to the size of a large man, and is now repeating his original phrase in a much deeper tone. “Pick me. Pick, me,” it says lethargically. Its beady eyes stare down at you and you know you’re done for. You wake in a panic—heart beating fast, sweat coating your temple.

But when you wake, the nightmare isn’t over. The tootsie is lying beside you! You’re confused as to how it got there, and once again afraid. “Pick me, pick me,” it whispers again. You must prove to your parents that it really exists. You bravely pick up the tootsie roll and carry it to your parents’ bedroom. Shaking your dad awake, you show him the piece of candy, explaining how it talked and moved around. But when you open your hand, the tootsie’s face is gone. It’s just another piece of candy. Your dad is frustrated and goes back to sleep.

You look at the tootsie roll for a long time, but its face never reappears. You throw the candy away and vow never to go trick-or-treating again. Happy Halloween.

Archie Smith, Boy Wonder

Archie Smith was a boy like any other, except for his keen ability to read the thoughts of those around him. It was a hidden talent, one that he kept secret and shared with no one, not even his parents. They say ignorance is bliss, and in Archie’s case, it may have been true. Archie was only eight, and most of what he heard, he didn’t understand.

His gift was one that he had not been born with. Just ten months earlier, he’d been playing with his older sister, Judie, when he heard her think that she was too old for his games and that he needed to acquire more friends. Not knowing that she hadn’t actually said the words, he ran off and began to cry. It wasn’t until he heard his mother think about how much she wished she’s married Ben Harper from down the street that he realized what was happening.

Archie wasn’t the most loved boy at school, and his new ability didn’t much help his self-esteem. He knew too much now, and drove his friends away after learning what they thought about him. He ate alone, played alone, and walked alone. His burden made him drift into silence, and he stopped speaking. Ten months later, and nothing had changed.

He felt as though he no longer mattered, and like no one liked him.

Until one night.

He was lying in his bed, awake, but with his eyes closed when he heard voices coming from his window. He was afraid and confused as to why there was someone at his window, but equally intrigued. He kept his eyes closed, and tried to listen to the voices the best he could.

A tiny voice asked, “Is he the one?”

“It could be possible, but he’s awfully small,” another tiny voice replied.

“We’ve been looking for months, and everything has lead us here,” the first and more feminine voice said. “He has to be the one we’ve been looking for. I sense his gift. He reeks of magic.”

“Let’s get on with it then.”

He was astonished to find that he couldn’t read their thoughts. He needed to know who they were, and he needed to know how this had happened to him. At this moment, he could no longer lie still. He turned over, eyes open, and spoke his first words in months into the darkness. “My name is Archie Smith, I’m eight and I can’t read your minds, but I can read everyone else’s.”

He couldn’t see were the voices had come from, but a tiny gasp came out of thin air in the corner of his room and two tiny people appeared. They were the size of mice, and their skin seemed to illuminate the room as if it glowed. They hadn’t been there a moment ago, and seemed to have been invisible.

The little, glowing people stood there with shocked looks on their faces for quite some time. It was Archie that made the first move. “Are we going on an adventure? Can I wear my pajamas?”

“Oh, dear. It seems he is the one. Hello, Archie. My name is Claude Frobisher and I’m 214 years old. We’re from a magic place, and we would like for you to help us save it.”

Scare Tactics: A Test

[Glen, trapped inside his own mind, recollects how he ended up in this predicament]

I can't move, breathe, speak or hear and it's so dark all the time. If I knew it would be this lonely, I would've been cremated instead. An eternity of nothingness, alone with my own thoughts, I rot. As the time wastes away, my loneliness turns to rage and my confusion turns to violence. I must get out of this damned box. How did I get here? Who put me here? Where is my family, my wife and daughter? Where did they go? Is wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was supposed to go someplace magical and happy. I’ve been cheated. Cheated…

This is James’ fault. He’s the reason I’m here. If he hadn’t been driving that night, if he’d been sober… I wouldn’t be stuck in this perpetual darkness! James is to blame. He’s the one that needs to pay. If I ever get out of this box, he’ll pay.

[The powers that be decide that Glen deserves his revenge and lets his soul free from the confides of the box. Consumed with rage, he thinks only of his unfinished business]

There he is, James the criminal. He sits in his armchair, asleep with the light still on beside him. For what seems like an eternity, I’ve been trapped in a box in the ground in constant agony and mental torment, and waited for this moment.

I lean in close to his ear, and then I scream. He doesn’t stir. I slap him and I kick him, and still he doesn’t stir. What is this trickery? Why can’t he feel my wrath? I’m blind with rage, and I keep at it until he wakes.

He seems unhurt, except for the tired look in his eyes. A look of guilt, I’d never seen on him before. This pleases me, and I float back to my darkness. But where there should be nothing, a bright light consumes the earth and swallows me up.

On the other side, my parents are waiting for me with a six pack of beer, a hot dog and the Royals Game on. Maybe death’s not so bad.

Keeping it Reel

Parenting can be a daunting task, and we certainly don't make it any easier. As teenagers, we frequently forget that our parents are just as lost as we are. They do the best they can, and try to do what's best for us, but sometimes, they make mistakes. As children, we see our parents as these perfect, flawless people that we should strive to be exactly like. They're our heroes. Growing up, we begin to see the cracks in their once perfect armor, and it's disappointing. Nothing is as it seemed in our simple, child minds. It's confusing and it causes us to be angry and disrespectful and rebellious. Most of the time, there's no reason for our harshness and we're too hard on our parents. We don't know why we act this way, and we know that it's not fair, but we can't stop ourselves. Words pour out of our mouths uncontrollably and we are constantly justifying their wrongness (Question 27). We often feel as though our parents have forgotten what it's like to be our age; how tough it is to change and how uncomfortable we feel. We know that they must have felt this way at one point, but they act like we're just being insolent and uncooperative. They treat us like our behavior is just supposed to be accepted and that our outbursts don't really mean anything. Newsflash: they mean something to us. Parents: talk to your kids. Listen to them; really listen. And don't fake it. We can see through it now. Be genuine and don't get so caught up in trying to be a parent that you forget to be a friend and a mentor (Question 2).

Dan was a columnist for a newspaper who wrote about how hard it is to be a family, and advice on our to parent your kids. It would be interesting to write a column from the perspective of the kids. If i were to write for a newspaper, being a columnist would be really cool. I'd have control over what I wanted to write about, and could live in my own little paper world (Question 3).

As a child, my dad loved to use nicknames. To him, I was Taytor-Tot. It was silly and it drove me insane, but I secretly liked that he had his own name for me. It made me feel special.