Another pandemic, this time in 2030. People were just calling it pando now, and it was unlike other viruses as infection was fierce, and instead of the sick being treated they were coralled into internment camps to die. But something else occured, something unexpected, a sub race started to evolve. They were known as trolls those that survived pando, their features becoming twisted with unexplainable flattened noses, and elongation of the ears. Scientists, upon examining subjects found DNA unexplicably altered, with this new virus, like something out of Brothers Grimm fairytales.
I was nine years old when I murdered my friend, Nessie.
She had died fast, her body thrashing on the ground. I stared, awestruck. The only sadness I’d felt was when it was over. Destructive me.
I was ten years old when I killed Finley. He died the same way as Nessie, his body thrashing on the ground, squirming. It was a really interesting sight. And I've kept it a secret, because I'm pretty sure no one would have liked to hear that I had killed two of my good friends.
Finley and Nessie are buried together. I didn’t have that much space for them, because they were... well, they were really big. I used a shovel to sink them into the ground, and then I prayed for them.
I did the same thing when I was eleven to my other friend, Feefee. She died the same way, and I began getting bored of killing. I went out to bury Feefee that day, but then, my dad my stepped outside.
“Athena, will you take out the gar-” he’d started to say, then stopped when he saw me. His eyes grew big.
I was dragging Feefee out onto the lawn. My dad’s eyes grew even larger, if that was even possible, and his eyebrows bended over so much that they crossed. He looked ready to choke, and I couldn’t blame him. Dragging something takes a lot of effort.
“What is that your carrying?” He asked, his eyes now bulging out of his head. He closed his eyes. “Oh God, tell me I’m dreaming, tell me this isn’t real.”
He told me I had a lot to explain. And I did, later. I told him about Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.
Nessie, Finley, and Feefee.
In my life, I’ve murdered three.
When Darkness Comes (challenge)
when darkness comes
like the memories
we seek to leave
upon the shore.
we only hope,
they stay above water.
balanced on the line
where ocean meets sand,
tiptoes safe above
but we can't look back,
we still believe nothing
and our escape
seems a lot brighter,
If labeled as an adventure.
when darkness comes.
grateful to forget.
Air raid sirens burst my ears
As fog rolls in
Barren streets whistle in cold air
Shop windows gather dust
Foreclosure signs marking bankruptcy
A ghost town
Of past memories and neighbors
Both are gone
In this horrible sickness
Rusty tins cans move along the ground Days of rations gone
And the future unknown
A bag of bones lays in the corner
This family didn't have enough
And everything left
By workers who've fallen ill
By this horrible sickness
The sick are growing
And the healthy are shrinking
And more patients
All those mourning
Their loved ones are buried without a word For this sickness must end
We must rise above fear
A horrible, debilitating fear
For we are stronger than anything
Though this brings a new low
We will rise above
Like a phoenix
The ashes will produce beauty
And life once more
For this sickness must end
I liked going to school,
first years were like magic
then suddenly it all become tragic.
My little heart in constant agony
my father's first slams mahogany:
"You have one job and you can't do it right!"
my face turned red from crying,
my mothers face is marble,
all this kids point at me,
But now it's all finished,
I'm free swinging from a tree.
the writing process can be hard. I get inspired by odd things often at inconvient times. During serious moments or silent meetings i’ll often laugh about some scene i’m imagining. For example at a really boring, i guess, you’d call it dinner party i found myself penning in all the people around me in a scene. I guess they’ll never invite me again because as i explained the scene to my sister we couldn’t help but break into laughter. Not that quiet type of laughter but the boistorious one that makes people wonder if your laughing at them. It makes people ask questions that you can’t quite answer since the joke is most certainly on them. I live in a family of writers so it’s hard to develop your own process when you’re motivation has been your mom, your sister. You want to be like them but to write you have to find your own voice, become your own person. In writing for me at least there isn’t really a process it’s all about how i feel. Usually, though i turn on some music and get inspired by the melodic words and calming tunes. Nothing is quite as motivating or inspiring than turning on “The National,” and just starting to write something that I know, is going to be amazing. I think for me at least it’s important not to have a process if I did i feel like my writing would be generic and less passionate.
Overloaded but I can write on the Fly
My mind is always floaded with poems so much so that I have to find a way to turn off my mind. My whole world is a story and everything I come in contact with can become a story, a poem, and should I say a song too. I have tons of scrape paper's, envelopes, letters, book's I mean all kinds of books that I use to write in. And who hasn't used toilet paper before because you forget your phone. Not only that I'm obsessed with writing pens as well. Every good writer have to have their writing pens.