Sunday, November 6, 2011

Class Assignment on MLK's Letter from Birmingham Jail

Not Preventing Injustice Supports Injustice: Targeting the Audience Non-Violently
            “We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people” (579). Passive silence is equal in atrocity and injustice as actions of those unmoral. To sit by and observe an act of violation against human rights would be the same as to put oneself in the shoes of those committing the violation. When trying to reform or protest all groups, directly involved or not, must participate. There proves extreme power in peoples opinions and beliefs regardless of whether or not they are effected.
            Martin Luther King Jr. (MLK Jr.) makes an indisputable point in his Letter from Birmingham Jail addressing the white moderates of the country whom are those that sit by and witness the discriminating events before them while doing nil. MLK Jr. is labeled an extremist and imprisoned due to a method of non-violent protesting, whilst African Americans are being violently abused by the very people that sentenced his entrapment. In his quote he states how when looking back on history the white moderates who chose not to play a role in the movement will be the ones responsible for tragedy.
            Were those good that express “appalling silence” to stand up and represent their beliefs then history would be significantly different. MLK Jr. would gain much more praise and be heavily supported in his efforts to protest non-violently as a means to obtain ultimate peace among the races of the country. While other radical groups chose different approaches such as support gained through violent propaganda, MLK Jr. devised an approach that would harm no one. The reason for the aggressive suffocation of Black Nationalists is due to minimum amounts of persons with authority who opposed the injustice actually standing up for what they believe in and revolting against the wrong actions being committed.
            Racial indifferences play an effect on people nationally, not just of African ethnicity as MLK Jr. references when stating, “Consciously or unconsciously, he has been caught up by the Zeitgesit, and with his black brothers of Africa and his brown and yellow brothers of Asia, South America and the Caribbean, the United States Negro is moving with a sense of great urgency toward the promised land of racial justice” (580). This is prevalent in Sherman Alexie’s A Good Story where Alexie discusses the hardships of discriminations that American Indians face through the rarity of a good story. Alexie has his character tell a story within a story that elaborates on the occasion of a not to frequent good story about a boy who skips out on his field trip to make the day of an old man who looks forward only to seeing the children at the end of the day. The story is relevant to MLK Juniors message due to the similar themes of oppression that American Indians face as well.
            To connect his message to all peoples MLK Jr. references another example of pacifistic methods to execute ways to obtaining an ultimate goal that does not include force by quoting another extremist Jesus, “Love you enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you” (581). Here MLK Jr. uses another example of non-violent action said by a man that the majority of the country worships to justify his approach to reaching peace, and doing so in a way that is relatable to people of all colors.
By stating this quotation in a strong message against white moderates MLK Jr.  poignantly directs his frustration and disappointment towards the cowardice and lame of the country that reside in their comfort zone without making efforts to give their due part. MLK Jr. uses a method of guilt tripping to the audience he addresses by not directly attacking them, but instead portraying his opinion and sadness on the fact that what he speaks of occurs. Not only does he direct his message towards white moderates in order for them to recognize their wrong, but he also addresses the issue so that those who do not fully comprehend the situation may learn where the core of the dilemma resides.
Writing Strategy: Martin Luther King Jr. uses the strategy of targeting his audience indirectly with a message of retrospect. He addresses them as if he were to after the events discussed have passed. By doing this he effectively conveys his opinion of the targeting audience in a way that would leave a direct impact on the guilty person reading his letter.
            This technique intrigues me due to the way it grabs the reader. In a persuasive piece this technique of address can prove useful in my own writing if I were to want to sincerely target a reader with the message I were trying to present.
            The impact of MLK Juniors words are also important for me as a writer to analyze because of it firm connection to those reading it. His message does not beat around the bush and is incredibly direct in meaning, something I should learn to develop in my own writing.


I Understand: Connecting Concepts to the Author and Audience
“Concepts are the special terms, the jargon, that insiders use and that anyone who wants to become part of the conversation needs to learn (128).” They are what help us understand and assess. Conceptions act as an invaluable relatable learning material. A universal tool used to connect with individuals of certain interest bringing ideals into their own realm. A point may be made in argument to a group of people pointing out different concepts to different people when elaborating on a subject. Concepts are relayed through connecting topics of relation to the reader.
            In the case of Linh Kieu Ngo’s essay on cannibalism, Cannibalism: It Still Exists, he discusses the concept of cannibalism being more than just a method of survival. The idea that the purpose expands beyond the constraints of desperate times and can be known to actually be practiced for purposes of diet and religion. Here Ngo uses concept to enlighten those ignorant of cannibalisms roots to show the prevalence in our history.
            Examples are made through conceptions. In Ngo’s essay he depicts a scenario that happened to Vietnamese refugees escaping the communist grips of Vietnam. Fleeing away from their country they become stranded on boat and resort to eating human flesh in order for survival. Using the real time circumstance of desperation Ngo is connected to the reader, causing them to understand the drive for such an act. Through concept he causes the reader to comprehend his information rather than stating cannibalism may be used for survival without example.
            A variety of situations over the course of history depicted in the essay give visual connection to the concept being discussed concerning cannibalism. The learning connection of giving several anecdotes to illustrate the origins and purpose for cannibalism. Necessary examples of concept give the reader something to absorb. Grasping a subject can prove difficult without a portrait to hold onto.
            Concept connection becomes exemplified again in Rich A. Friedman’s piece, Born to Be Happy, Through a Twist of Human Hard Wire, when he touches upon the subject posing a psychiatric mirror to chronic depression, hyerthymia. Hyperthymia causes certain individuals to have a constant positive disposition and outlook on life. Friedman proposes the concept of how a person goes about achieving happiness. He does this by detailing both ends of the spectrum and elaborating on their causes. Using examples of depressed dysthmia patients Friedman relates the disposition of those who are affected by hyperthymia, connecting the concept using relatable terms.
A concept of how the application of storytelling affects the evolution of the human race may be done effectively through connecting example. In Jeremy Hsu’s The Secrets of Storytelling: Why We Love a Good Yarn he portrays the universality of storytelling through cultures throughout history using references from prehistory hieroglyphics to modern day movies. A concept developed through relating topics.
            The special terms of concepts provide explanation via the reader’s interests. The use of such a tool acts as a vital task for the author to connect to their audience. The strategy allows their message to be conveyed using a strategy that integrates your idea into the reader life.

Writing Strategy: The persuasive piece opens with a statement that directly describes what the essay will discuss, almost as if acting as a thesis. While grabbing the reader’s attention the sentence also sharply tells the reader what will be argued. This technique gives the essay a strong informative feel that reassures the topic. After reading the first line I became intrigued in the topic of concepts and how they play a role in language and life. The topic sentence molds to not only the whole piece, but the pieces that follow.
            This technique can be used in multiple ways in my own writing. I can use the strategy to strengthen my introduction paragraph, strengthening my thesis. By instantly grabbing the reader with what the essay elaborates on firmly, I can lead into a powerful thesis that has clarity.
            I may also take advantage of this technique when writing fiction. Were I to write a narrative in first person I could begin with a statement that immediately opens with what I will discuss, rather than a technique that grabs the reader imprecisely.

Who I Am As a Reader

New knowledge is the most valuable commodity on earth. The more truth we have to work with, the richer we become.
-Kurt Vonnegut, Breakfast of Champions.
I cherish and thrive on reading. I use reading as a tool, a friend, and a teacher. Over the period of my maturation reading has followed beside me. Reading defines attribute, hobby, and occupation. In essence, what I read describes the kind of person I am, and why. Whether due to wanting a smile or to better my career, I read because of my love for comedy, story, and ways to produce more sophisticated and technical forms of writing.
Everyone loves a loud laugh. I find my laughter amongst novels of witty genius. Humor integrated into the text glues a book to your hand, not allowing the story to be closed until the end. Absurd hilariousness that embodies The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglass Adams targets my laughter likings precisely, “This planet has — or rather had — a problem, which was this: most of the people living on it were unhappy for pretty much all of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movement of small green pieces of paper, which was odd because on the whole it wasn't the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.” A quote derived from the novels introduction that chases the heart that homes my laughs. Douglass captures the reader with such a mundane sense of humor that the average person just would not think of. The effect results in you slapping your knee and crying. The idea of characterizing money seems weird and hysterical. Douglass Adam’s became the foundation for why I read for laughs. Executed with grace, lathered with wit and intelligence. A novel that will make you chuckle will be a novel you court.
Humorous novels capture your love in several ways, one of them being to learn. I read to laugh, as well as to make others laugh. Reading humor in a way can be like a manual for funniness. By reading comedic literature you can pick up on witty concepts and learn how to use that humor yourself. It teaches personal comedic value. Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughter House Five plays on how we perceive humor. Rather than just plain slapstick comedy, he approaches with a different technique. Using dry, dark, and ironic humor Vonnegut makes laughs when the reader may not know if they should be. A famous line by him, “So it goes.” A depressing, grim, and also funny quote used throughout the entire novel. I am amazed by the quotes universal nature and ingeniousness. It adds a lighthearted tone to all the drama that surrounds the book and our lives. Used both when mundane events happen, as well as when someone passed. Vonnegut uses it so often that it becomes silly, like expected. An aspect such as that teaches you how humor can be found in so many different ways. Literature exposes you to varieties of forms that you may not experience in your everyday interactions.
Adventure also is an aspect of reading that sucks myself in. Traversing across country, or exploring a new world fascinates me. How people are able to create these alternate realities that function almost too realistically. It probes incredibly interesting delving into an adventure of the author’s dreams. Learning about how their mind works and comparing your dreams of story to theirs. When young I would develop wild stories, act them out, or draw about them. As I aged I began to instead write about them, decent or not. When I read other stories of adventure I become sucked in because of the creativity of some authors. The first novel that really pulled me into its adventure I discovered in my English class, Walter D. Myers Fallen Angels, detailing the experience of a platoon in Vietnam. The story is told through the narrative of an eighteen-year-old boy as his self and his company get stranded throughout the jungle. It marks an adventure I could not even make up, for its depiction of war and terror becomes so real and so personal. A novel such as that truly explains an author experiences. The main character gets involved in battle after battle that painfully tears apart his platoon, killing everyone around him. During an investigation of the village one of the main characters close companions wanders in a local. As he enters an enemy surprises him from under a rug and attempts to fire upon him. Stunned because the enemy’s gun has jammed he freezes and a moment goes by that they share right before the soldier of the platoon brutally mutilates the enemy’s face with several clips of ammunition. Events like these are difficult to replicate for their power it instills in the reader. A very strong hollow feeling gets put into the reader as they get into the adventure of the cruel world soldiers faced in Vietnam. I crave those adventures to try and look into the eyes of others.
Not only does adventure fuel my interests, but it also offers a place for myself to escape to. A sanctuary to lose yourself in, to relax and to enjoy simple fun. When I read fiction to escape I enjoy lighthearted engaging novels such as Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson and the Olympian Series, an adventure of a twelve-year-old boy who radically discovers his relationship as the son to the Greek god Zeus in modern day. As I read the series I became completely integrated and lost in the adventure as the boy and his company channel through all the greatest Greek legends in their own brilliant fictional world. Rick Riordan with his extensive knowledge of Greek mythology develops an alternate world in present day that becomes so believable you wish you could experience it. In the first novel of the series The Lightning Thief the main character sends off to retrieve Zeus’s symbol of power, the master lightning bolt. As the main character escapades through Greek mythological America I felt that the world Riordan creates. I wish it were true, I lose myself and become focused on only his world. In a scene where the main character stumbles upon a roadside curio-shop in upstate New York, he gets introduced to disguised Medusa. Medusa veils herself as the owner of the shop making her character seem so believable. The way Riordan can integrate the two cultures absorbs you. Escaping into an adventure empowers your own.
Reading offers both recreational and professional uses for me. A primary reason that I delve myself into literature it to develop techniques and strategies of other writers. When I read I try to learn ways that authors use to grab readers attention so I may incorporate that same usage in my own writing. Reading lends itself as my teacher to guide me to reach my ultimate goal of becoming a professional writer. Due to my age I have not yet experienced life to the fullest so there are topics and concepts I cannot yet elaborate on. Through reading a wide variety of literature I can touch upon such concepts. Grow from teaching myself about their experiences. A novel that fascinates me for its unbelievably well written intricate genius is Stieg Larsson’s A Girl with a Dragon Tattoo, about of series of characters with intertwining conflicts that shake you when they clash. The way Larsson perfectly uses dark theme and character to pull the reader into his sadistic world. Using profound knowledge of the journalism world he was apart of and the culture of Sweden the reader becomes engrossed. Using sex and murder and vengeance Larsson never lets his readers go in a way that executes exactly how it should. The main character leaves on a quest to discover a long forgotten murder mystery in an old Swedish town. When he first begins to catch on to a trail, Larsson throws curve balls at the reader that make you unable to figure out where the novel will take you next. I want to be able to write using that genius. I want to develop a natural skill for words that allows me to hold the reader in and dictate when I want them to wander and when I want them to be grabbed.
Learning how to develop characters contributes an amazing aspect of reading. I read to learn about the various types of people, attributes, cultures, characteristics, so in my own writing I may compile all the knowledge I gained from reading and channel it. A character makes or breaks a story; they must be real and must make a connection to the reader. My ability to write characters is strengthened by every novel I read. In the infamous graphic novels written by Art Spiegelman Maus I & II, Art depicts a story of the holocaust through his grandfather. Using mice as Jews and cats and Germans Art creates this immediate segregation of characters. The characters Art and his Grandfather are so amazing because they are so real. As you read through the novel you become bonded with the characters, become upset when they do, become happy as they do. While they lay to waste in the concentration camp Auschwitz you sympathize for them. When they are abused and tortured and cheated of life you become angry. After you put down the novel when you come to the end you feel as if you know the characters. To develop such a strong bond between character and reader is what will make you a successful writer. It is what I need to perfect and experiment with. I cherish and thrive on reading. I use reading as a tool, a friend, and a teacher. Over the period of my maturation reading has followed beside me. It is a defining attribute, hobby, and occupation. In essence, what I read describes the kind of person I am, and why. Whether it be due to wanting a smile or to better my career, I read because of my love for comedy, adventure, and ways to produce more sophisticated and technical forms of writing.

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Breasts in Bras

A strong look is presented in the firm
but jiggling hold they mold in the folds
 of clothes shaped like cups bringing moods- so
 giddy and giddy and smiling all
day with no way to be upset, when in
front of me the jiggling hold relieves
stress, worry but brings fun-
I want to release
the hold to make firm hang and sway back and
forth, side to side, different directions,
 where ever I wish to push them, pull or

squish them, ripping the cupped cloth surrounding
them to free them from the attractive prison
they reside in, but some part of me wishes
not to because they look absolutely
beautiful wrapped in lingerie.

George, George’s George, George’s George’s George.

The only one who inhabits the planet is a large boyish man probably the age of twenty or thirty. His name is George.
The planets name is George too, ironically. It consists of a pillar of rock that juts about four miles from the world’s core that is roughly ten meters in radius. On top of this pillar stands George. Surrounding George and his pillar is a vast army of crystallized watery ice clouds. Revolving George, the planet, is a gargantuan yellow sun. His name is Sun George.
Sun George is quite a happy sun, being assigned to only one planet to revolve around, which is George. He does not have to work very much so the majority of his time can be spent lounging in space drinking a warm tea and enjoying the scenery.
Planet George is not nearly as content with its self as his sun. Most of his time is spent in wading in his own confused anxiety. There is no explanation why he is primarily cloud with the exception of one perfect cylindrical pillar jutting straight out of its core. George would say it is because he likes it this way; George the man of course. He has never taken into consideration how the rock pillar feels however. What is not so apparent to George is that the pillar is severely lonesome. Living amongst only clouds, the pillar does not get to socialize with others of his genetic type, being rocks. This depresses the pillar extensively. Many times he has been close to committing what the pillar calls “rock suicide”. In George’s terms that means collapsing, and with it George, who lives atop its surface.
Were the pillar to do this then a chain of unfortunate events would fall into accord. Sun George would be most upset because he no longer would have a planet to revolve around. He no longer would have a planet to revolve around because Planet George would no longer exist. Planet George would no longer exist because George would most likely be killed by the four-mile fall into Planet George’s core. With no George in the picture there is no Planet George. Thus it would be a rather obscene action on the pillars part if he were to commit such an act.
Unfortunately the pillar did commit his act of suicide. However,
George did not fall to his demise. He did however fall though.
This story is about the very event of George’s descent into Planet George’s core.

There once was a banana found drifting in an obscure region of space. The banana had questions about how it had gotten there. He also wanted to know what was the dreary planet that was in the foreground of his vision, as well as the vibrant sun next to him. While the banana pondered these questions he also contemplated the definition of reality. Soon it found itself plummeting towards the very unfriendly looking surface of the planet.
The planet and sun that the banana was witnessing turned out to in fact be George and his sun. At this time George the man was still standing safely on his rock pillar. He too thought it was peculiar that there would be a banana roaming the vacancy of his atmosphere. When George saw the poor deserted banana alone, falling to inevitable doom he wondered what it would taste like.
Next thing the banana knew he was no longer dropping. Rather he was in the hand of George the man, being peeled, prepared to be eaten as an exquisite treat. It was then that the banana understood the meaning of reality and the mystery to existence. The banana came to a very correct conclusion that life is as whatever one makes it to be. So at that moment the banana imagined itself as a voluptuous tree in the midst of other voluptuous trees, all filled with plump ripe bushels of bananas. Unfortunately the banana did not yet uncover the inconvenient truth to his very correct theory. Which is that life is whatever one makes it to be, but sometimes what one makes it to be is not quite reality. In the bananas case this was one of those times.
Although he thought he was busty banana tree, he was not. He was eaten,
by George.
However, it was eaten when it believed to be pleasantly lounging among his kin. It was a good death.

The banana was not the first to discover this epiphany of life. George the man had crossed paths with such knowledge rather long ago.
He was on vacation in Russia. Not many would call Russia vacation although. While in a bar George was indulging on a quaint cup of tea. His favorite tea. English Earl Grey. And then it hit him. The mystery of all life and existence.
At that instance George wished to be on atop a rock pillar besieged by infinite amounts of clouds on his personal planet with endless day and a peeled banana in his hand. And he was.
Unluckily for George, it was also at that instance that depression became rather much for the pillar of rock. On the final bite taken from the banana the pillar committed his final hoorah.
And down the pillar went, rock and all. And with it,
George had roughly sixty seconds before his abrupt plummet deep into the ground of George the planet ended.
George was however curiously excited to meet the ground of George the planet, he had never seen it before. What an interesting experience he thought. He pondered what it might look like.
What it feels like.
He could not wait to find if there even was any sort of ground at all. After all he has lived there his whole life and not yet seen it. He imagined the possibility of a whole civilization that had been hidden amongst the clouds.
Little Englishmen laying about in the grass on café chairs drinking English Earl Grey. Or what if there was no civilization, but endless quantities of English Earl Grey reserved for him personally.
George realized the possibilities could be infinite. The planet George however knew what actually lay at the bottom. And it hadn’t the least to do with earl grey tea. He knew that George was in for a rather unpleasant surprise. The thought of ruining the man’s innocent excitement for what may lay at the ground level saddened George the planet. He then thought about the distresses the pillar of rock had experienced prior to his act of suicide. It was then that it occurred to George the planet that he too suffered from similar social distresses. The thought that he had lived alone all these years with no companionship other than George the man made him unusually upset. All George the man does is stare into space, wishing about bananas and other tasty treats.
When George reached the end to his lengthy fall he was indeed not greeted by little Englishmen with tea. He still thought it would be quite neat though.
What had greeted him gave George a refurbished perspective of his theory of life. It made him laugh under his breath at first and soon turned into a monstrous chuckle. One that would pair most appropriately to a patient of an insane asylum.
In fact, George was greeted by a virtually identical pillar of rock suspended in virtually identical clouds to what looked to George miles above the surface. And lay atop the pillar was again, George.
At that point in time George looked up at the ceiling of Planet George, perplexed. The planet however knew exactly why such a random occurrence happened. It is an event that the planet has witnessed several times before when the man has fallen from his point in the clouds.
George the planet then grew inevitably tired.
Eventually so did the new rock pillar. And soon enough that rock pillar would begin to feel the burdens of the rock pillar before him, and the one before him. And just as the others before him did, he too will follow in their self-destructive footsteps.
And George will continue to inquire about the bottom of George.

My Eyes Into Hers

A boy caught a glimpse of a flower several years ago
causing him to notice the beat of his heart,
He did not know why, it just happened, the flower was a
Radiant beautiful – modeling phenomenal flawless finesse,

hesitating at first, a boy approached the flower
kissed the flower, tasting its irresistible taste
and met the flower again in seven hundred and thirty days,

Surprised was a boy when the flower had blossomed
made with even more
Power color and wonder,
Twisting its dance in the summer light the flower
trapped a boy with its sight of voluptuous glisten,

Every dawn rising, Each night falling
a boy would ponder his new wonder about
his flower,
So enamored by a touch of scent, berry kiss churned with coconuts
His favorite,
Flowers around his flower were cast under
by its magnificent pedals with
Gorgeous powerful bloom,
Unbelievably vigilant and resilient to the rough environment encasing it
absorbing every detriment to its predicament, turning problems on to their stomach in order to benefit,
Mesmerizing amazement dropped in driblets from its essence,
He began to speak to the flower, lending it
a penny of his thoughts two hundred times a day
in varieties of ways,

The flower kept him endless company, brightening his day,
giving him the cork to plug that uncomfortable lingering space,
offering what had made him change into a person a boy is proud to say is better,


On a particular evening the silence fell, the
Flower spoke back to the boy,
Oh how the flower could sing its speech with
such graceful way and praise,
It softly hummed “comfortable” “trust”,
His flower showed him his place in a place he has always faced, lost until guided,
in its presence a boys lips tickled feverishly with gloss
hands laughed fiendishly at hysterical thoughts
smile spoke words of lust,
A picture of the flower wrote thousands of sensations and a single declaration labeled

Unique are the pedals drenched in pretty purple blue shades
Comparable if not it- an angel
A sculpture of bliss- the greatest kiss of connection,
Every feature better than the next cycling round and round, unable to chose which one bests, for they all are the best,
The face of the flower; clear crystal sky blue and pearl white- creating tsunami’s of beauty crashing towards its body of smooth silk parts a boy needs to touch
For every touch reminds him of how much he can love
fulfilling his lust for its thoughts,

A boy now holds the flower to his heart now noticing why the abnormal beat,
such an anomaly caused a boy to be so swiftly swept of his feet at a flower, whom he can reveal his identity of serenity to,
Pinned to his left breast coat pocket the flower will forever stay, for the boy would claim that whether in physical form or not the flower has left its mark
Laid its change upon his brain for the best
Made him sane again amongst deranged craze,
Inducing on him a sense of content in his world regardless of how poor it becomes as long as the flower remains where it stays
lounging against his cloth
 with its glorious coat of a perfect the boy has difficulty articulating,
“Perfect” does not do the flower justice, for to him it goes much deeper
the closest he can get to describing his flower is Happiness

Pure Happiness.

Apathy is Back in Style

Apathy is our kingdoms catastrophe
blasting away seamless history
indulging in nil

Destroying the genes of humanity by passing on tales and woes of the lazy,
who simply cease to see the vitality in prosperity of the epic empire and conquering country proving absolutely dominant once upon a time
from sea to sea,

There used to be words unrelated to those of lethargy
to describe our godly thievery we label “conquering,
ingenious, innovative, brave”

Now what is left is a crippled stretch of land sentenced to death with lassitude
covering every longitude and latitude,

Apathy’s our mess.


A fly in a jar
stuck in the jar
with many other flies
sealed tight,

Grouped in a jar
with no practical space to breathe
Life is a jar,
What do I actually need?
Anxiety is the air
where the fly is forced to be,

Some band together
walk from one side to another
others isolated
with few bouncing from the choices left and right,

A fly stands undecided,
Even when more decisive and
than all.


Dormant in class my universe wanders to experiences I can only imagine, but have never felt nor smelled or heard,
Only see in the dreamy haze of structured memories rotating in my head like a rolodex sped forward so veraciously that a picture can only be held in thought for the moment the picture is present and not a moment more,
Attempting to feel a place or person or thing you’ve never felt before, only wish to,
To try and lie to yourself to make believe what not true, true.


A foggy confused feeling mixed in
with swirling discomfort and irregular
breathing leaving as I struggle in-
tensely out of that mess of sheets and fleet
of pillows that I call bed, Leaping from
its mold in a dramatic rush to climb
into the scolding sprinkling water I
call shower is much like writing this ran-
dom poem, a very brisk need to quickly
speed out the door with a shirt balled in
my palm and falling out of my un-
zipped pants,
nose diving into the car re-
lieved that the dramatic rush is coming
to a close, until you notice you’ve
forgotten your drawers

Imperative to win my morning race
 so my teacher does not win the right to
 look me in my mug to tell me I’m a
 lazy lug, The overdues on
my class attendance sentence how well I
do on this poem
For this is the class I write too

Ironically my morning routine
 is put in fast forward to cruise out the
 door in similar speed to how I fran-
-tically sketch this poem with a hand
 vigorously trembling from the pace
 I write to where I must go,

I struggle to run out my home each weight-
ed morning the same way I struggle to
muster words with this pen in
my hand strenuously creating with
 this restricting syllable meter.

A Sad Song

Bass drum
Bass drum,
Heavy wailing hum
initiating the wake up call to the uneducated bum who let himself out to be hung
by the holy machine
and those once called Big Nurse,

by who he is-
            an aggravated kid with no intelligence to cultivate what he lost,

by righteous God who represented a figure in command, not actually holy, but still something to place faith in to save him,

by pure arrogance corroding and destroying the life he now won’t live,
Instead sent to the pit to be a combine in line with the rest of the combines
working with the machine

Not the individual wealthy free thinker he pictured he’d be, dressed in gold, bathing in silver and crystal
eating emerald, dining with William and Juliet,
lounging about with the Queen Elizabeths,

continues on this sad song of a seed gone so wrong,
falling south into the mouth of futureless averageness
where no one hears the strumming hum of his bass drum.

Tuesday, December 7, 2010


I was flustered,
Isolated in ignorance
To muster vigilance
Glancing to and fro,
Through audience
Only to see where my new found feeling
Was alone,
My person struck with thunder’s grace,
In public
Of all place,
For such an epiphany
To whack me
In the nose,

From toes to fingers
A surge of fresh born sensation lingered
That made clear what I know,

I was just one of
A mere hundred,
The family member
To the presenter,
But no one knew,
Front and center
Was the leading member
My mother,
Her voice that shook with thunder but
Not with roaring sound,
Like gentle rain to mist,
With undisturbed silence,

Episodic in story,
Elaborate in path
In which she took,
From Ritz to rubble
Impact was made,
Yet, subtle
To me.

A person who embodied everything
I was meant to be
Lived with me,
Better yet, gave unquestioning
Birth to me,
Since a babe, I was
Unknowingly meld
Into the person I thought I
Myself made,
In unconscious drift,
On my way,

Love what you do,
An artist’s motto,
My motto,
Of the prosperity
I imagine I’d be
Was there,
Smiling in front of me,

I left that place
Vibrant with pride,
For being in relation to success
Not pathetic unrest,
Whom I felt was washed out with grey rotten stress
Of hours assumed toiled away
In play
Of art,

Little did I know
Then was when
I would discover,

I idolize my mother.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010


Normalcy, simplicity, insanity,
What’s the difference?
Who are you to be you?
Why am I defied the right to be whom I be?
Is there a difference?
I see you
You see the same,
There is judgmental hypocrisy,
This isn’t some hierarchy
Where you can pick and chose through blame,
There’s no difference
Between how one should be perceived
Only minor discrepancies.

Truth does not point,
Tell me the difference between you and me,
When I look at you I see I
When I think who I is
I know,
Not a difference between us and we,
You dress elegant and intelligent
I clothe to represent my me,

Never will it be
Forgotten the everything you’ve achieved,
But don’t act,
Giving orders to demands of lunacy,
Preaching nonsense that fuels
Rules, conscious and ego
That is not you,
Just you trying to be what has jaded society,
Do not stand thinking you’re above the
Monopoly of manipulation, fornication, tragedy, and catastrophe,
No one is taller than no man
Woman or anybody,
What’s the difference?
You are identical to me
Only different in unique personality.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Ridiculous OvertheTop Metaphore Story

It is unbearable feeling as if you’ve been awaken from a deep narcotic slumber. Drifting off in a sleep-like state while your surroundings continue to move around you. No longer can I differentiate from consciousness and dream. I stand in front of my dingy bathroom mirror starring at my toothbrush. I watch my own hands groom my teeth without even processing the thought to do so. My feet move left and right on the same track each day carrying me to my habitual destination. My only jolt back to reality is the ever so constant nudge of a fellow inmate or the yelling howl of the Warden telling me what to do, how to live. I know what my day will contain in its empty bowels before I have even experienced it. It is all the same, all torture.
            My habitual track takes me from place to place. Each place I enter I feel mindless. Is it odd that I feel most alive when behind the grey and black bars of my room in deep sleep? The first destination of my imprisoning cycle is the showers, an uncomfortable white tiled room of pain. White is usually associated with innocence, which I find oddly peculiar. The rooms I despise most in this place seem to be the rooms that are blinded in searing white. The Warden must have it this way out of pure cynical irony. To shower or not to shower is the most problematic dilemma I face in my “life”. I know if I do not I will be faced with further discomfort, but what is that discomfort really. I always wonder if it matters whether I am comfortable or not. Will that comfort change my experience for the better? Regardless of the controversy I face, I step in the thirty-second scalding, hot torrent of water, out of fear that I might disrupt my always-persistent routine. The water hose sprays you as if it were a guard executing you behind a shed. The high-powered water slams into your worn skin like a barrage of stones. I spend that thirty seconds praying. Praying that this is another narcotic slip out of consciousness. When the barrage of water ends I am reminded I am still here, and without fail my legs continue on their left, right track to my next destination. I approach my tear stained body suit that the Warden politely labels our “uniform”. I take another look in the mirror and see myself fully dressed in the clothing. Each time I feel confused. Did I dress myself just then? Or was I already dressed?
            It continues. I make my way through the yard to the dimly lit cafeteria that smells of foul molded morsels. Here is where I am greeted by a blurry stampede of uniformed people floating by me, all in the same bottomless situation as I. They flow by, so absorbed in themselves, I question whether they exist. Could I just be in another dream? For all I know I am sitting in my kitchen cooking a meal of eggs and toast. However there is not even the slightest trail of the scent of fresh homemade cooking. The air of the cafeteria is baked with a burning vulgar aroma that cannot even be put into words. Is there some way to tell if what I see is actuality? The planes of reality and imagination meld into one.
            I grab my meal of burnt meat and goo from the same large, sweaty, hair covered man that I do every morning. He thrusts the food on my plate without even the slightest hint of eye contact. His eyes stare into a void of nothingness, like a machine that scoops out meal after meal, day after day. I enter the line of uniformed people heading out the exit. It is like pulling into a traffic frenzy on the highway. All you can do is twiddle your thumbs until you get to the exit where you are greeted by your next destination. Here I sit in my usual seat and surround myself with the same usual three inmates. We sit silent; clawing at our scrap food until the Wardens droning voice is projected on the loud speaker. His voice makes me want to quit, to stab a fork through my heart, neck, and eye until I am rewarded with death. All just to escape from his monotonous bullshit I am forced to hear daily. I refrain from my suicide knowing that eventually I will be free, that I one day can have my own life. It would not be worth turning off my movie before it is finished and end all the “good” of my future. After the Warden is done, the four of us briefly interrupt eating to state how long until our liberation.
“One week left.”
We announce the words in harmony and do not express another sentence for the entirety of the meal. Our minds are focused on the end of the day where we can be pleased once again with a drug-like induced sleep.
            Shoulders knock and throw my body, awakening me from my hazy dream of real food laid out perfectly across my dining table. Uniformed people surround me from every angle – I am in the stampede. I find myself in the rush of the cafeteria. It continues. I receive the same burnt meat and goo before I re-enter the uniformed riot to the exit. Next thing I know I am in the same usual seat with the same usual inmates.
“One week left.”
The words drop out of my mouth without thought. My mind rapidly wanders, hasn’t this already happened? Was my life repeating or has the morning passed and this is lunch? The similarities between the days make it seems as if you are living through a drug sequence. It was impossible to decipher time – it didn’t exist. The thought of one week baffled me. What does a week mean anyway? A week could be seven days or one. Each is filled with the same happenings and minutes. How does one decipher between the seconds and hours.
            A familiar large, sweaty, hair covered man drops burnt meat and goo on my plate. I realize my shoulder is throbbing with a bruised pain. My eyes dart around the area. The legs of my body are taking me to my seat where my three inmates wait. Again, this place. Wasn’t I just here? I feel that I have never left, but it is dark outside now. Last I knew it was day. Everything looks unchanged though. My mouth reacts on its own, almost like it is on a timer to speak.
“One week left.”
Could it still be the same day? In my mind I’ve dreamed months away. I look down at my plate and my meal has already been devoured. How is it that I am functioning and acting without even realizing? Did I eat it amongst the silence and not acknowledge it?
            It continues. Retracing my previous steps across the yard I return to my room of grey and black bars. My head falls against the rough pillow that stinks of a dank musk. My eyes only close for a minute, but my mind is already drowning in dreams. Music is gently playing in the background of my wooded backyard. My dog is barking and chasing sticks while I laugh, feeling the breeze of the wind on my ears. The smell of real food returns to me; cheesy scrambled eggs along with rich blackberry jammed sourdough. That unbelievable feeling of being wrapped in your own bed sheets engulfs me. And then I am disturbed.
            The entrance of my inmate stirs me out of the only time of the day I look forward to. I try to return to that beautiful, empowering, friendly state, but it runs from me. The realities of the Warden, work, and routine all slip into my head, haunting and scaring my sleep away. I try to tell myself that this is all a lie, that I am simply unconscious. The haunting thoughts trickle from my body. The drug induced sleep pulls on my eyebrows throwing me into my deep narcotic slumber I love so much. It is in that slumber that I cannot be forced to eat burnt meat, be beaten, be victimized by the endless echo of meaninglessness. It is ironic though that my drug-enlaced drowsiness is what inevitably defines the repetition of my life.
            My eyes sluggishly crack open. Crushing painful water is blasting my body in a blinding white tiled room. Hasn’t this happened already? Where did my dream disappear to?
When is this…?

Fred. I'm a douche. My apologies.

Thursday, November 4, 2010

Sunday, October 3, 2010


Life locked up in a box seems such a distant memory to me now. At first I thought I was fortunate to be put behind bars. Well when you go from my original situation, could you blame me? My memory of it all is a little hazy, but I know the gist of it. My name is Peter, I know it’s an odd name for someone of my being, but like in most cases I didn’t chose it. About four years ago I was roaming the streets of New York City. How I ended up in Connecticut is odd, but it will all be explained. When fending for myself in New York I had been extremely troubled. There wasn’t a man on the planet that I trusted and not a thing I wasn’t skeptical of. This was a point of my life where I was incredibly violent and agitated. The slightest thing would set me off, I was rabid. My senses were keen and I was somewhat healthy besides being slightly under fed. To survive I knew that I had to protect myself by what ever means possible. The beginning months were fairly easy, lonely, but easy. I didn’t have a real family in the beginning. It was difficult you could say. I managed. When winter came around is when it began to become too much. The cold was terrible and the winds made you freeze in place. There were days after days where you didn’t get a break from the shivers. A part of my existence I wish I could leave out. However without it I wouldn’t be where I am today.
            Constant icey breeze with wet, white slosh on the ground one hundred percent of the time. Not a warm spot in the city existed. Every piece of known territory I could find I would have to defend to the death. The other strays were driven to craze too. My daily routine was strict and gruesome. Several times a week I’d go down to the deli where the shopkeeper was kind enough to spare a couple of left over servings. I would meet him in the back where he would feed me old slices of turkey and ham. It wasn’t much but they tasted fine and got me through the winter. Thinking of it now, I owe my life to that man. Without him I don’t think I would be alive today. After my trips to the deli I would stalk my part of the street. I claimed a narrow road where cars only went one way down. It wasn’t very busy, a good place to live. If anyone came even near I would make sure they felt unwelcome. I had been paranoid of everyone and everything. It wasn’t the hunger that bothered me or even the cold. It was surviving alone.
            He wouldn’t leave. I showed to him that he was blatantly trespassing. It was clear that I was hostile. He was much larger than I. A mouth filled with tangled teeth and drool. Drooping bloodshot eyes that matched his drooping face. What stood before me was no friend. Regardless of his appearance I was not worried. I was hungry, but not weak. He attacked, bellowing towards me as if I was going to just sit there and let him maul my body to pieces. I was being underestimated as usual. I leaped out of his path and struck his side. Standing on top of him with my nails drawing his blood as they dug into his neck made him realize he had picked the wrong fight. The two of us growled and grunted, trying to prove who was superior I guess. He desperately threw himself at me, but I knew he wasn’t going anywhere. I changed my hold on his neck from nails to teeth. Like I said, I had to defend to the death. Suddenly two burly hands reached around my stomach and gripped tight. They ripped me off the intruder and carried him in the opposite direction. The hands hauled me in the air into the back of a van and drove off. He was dead.
            “Peter…” I woke up to two people talking about me. “He seems to be one year of age.”
“He is definitely a mutt. I would say a pit-bull-hound mix.”
They had me locked in a crate. Originally I was livid with the humans locking dogs up like that. Until I realized they were helping us. That realization didn’t come for a while however. The pound was made of three major sections. The front was the entrance where people came to sign papers and set up visits. This room consisted of several couches and a reception desk. The people would spend the majority of their days in this room. Here they could squawk at each other and drink brown liquid out of pots and mugs. Four times a day a few people would wander into the facilities second section that was behind the receptionists’ desk. This is where they kept us, the dogs. It was called “the cells”. The people would examine us and feed us a meal a day. For months I would not let them examine me without showing some sort of resistance. That hostility could only last so long however. Soon it became too much of an effort. I slowly made the decision to greet people with a sort of decency. When they took me to the last section that was called the yard I would no longer be defiant. Upon arrival to the pound I had gone out of control when let out into the yard. Sprinting back and forth across the field, making it impossible for them to catch me. If they neared I would lunge and bite. A man had once torn at my tail, sending me plummeting to the ground. He wrenched my mouth shut with his boney fingers. His grip pulled out my whiskers. He dragged me into my crate by the neck being violent and brutal. My next acquaintance with this man did not go the same way. I attacked him where he was weakest. The humans are all tough and mighty until you put them in their place. As he tore at my tail, I tore at his. The only difference is mine isn’t located in my crotch. His shriek was piercing; I didn’t stop and continued to tare. A piece of him belonged to me by the time I was pulled off. Most of them quickly learned to stay back and left me on my own after that. To take me back to my crate they would harness me with a spiked collar and muzzle so that the same incident didn’t repeat itself. Like I said though, that phase of mine passed eventually. After a while socializing with the others began to become something I actually looked forward to. I’d perform the tricks people wanted me to do and even let them teach me a few. Sit, roll, lie down were simple, but fairly quickly I learned to flip, handshake, and dance. People started to warm up to me. I think I may have even won the favorite from a few. That doesn’t mean I would submit fully to them however. They no longer required putting me in a muzzle and collar just to get me inside, but I still liked to make it a difficult task for them to get me to behave.
            Soon enough I was starting to be brought out of the pound. They took me to places they called “fairs” along with some other dogs I lived with. At the time I knew you were fortunate to be able to leave, but hadn’t figured out why. My first fair was the hardest. Quickly I understood their purpose though; fairs were meant for outsiders to be able to examine us in order for adoption. At the pound the same adoption process occurred, however it was only occasional. Usually when a visitor came in they already had a dog in mind. So rather than having individual visits at the pound, they could show us off to the masses at fairs. It hit me that I here I could actually have a chance of being removed from the pound and put into a home, a family. The first time I witnessed an adoption was difficult to handle I guess. It was at the pound and I couldn’t get over that fact that I was being left behind while others were being saved. The “funny” thing to me was that most of the dogs in the pound were there because they had been born there. None of them had to experience what I had to, yet they all were being saved. So when I was introduced the first time to a group of people at the fair I was hysteric. The urge to bounce all over them and lick was uncontrollable. They weren’t very happy at the sight of me. I think the woman said I was too aggressive to control, that no one wants a mutt who jumps. The rest of the groups that saw me had the same reaction as the first. The day went on like that and soon the fair had passed. I was escorted back into the van and off I went, returning to the facility. Abandoned again.
            I felt optimistic about the second fair, but there was a still that “what if it happens again” lump stuck in the bottom of my stomach. The person I was assigned to as a fair guide was unusually nice. She had taken me for a long run around the park before hand. I could tell I needed it since I had so much cooped up energy from being locked in a small box of bars for so long. She also had these crunchy chicken flavored snacks that I’d get tossed to me periodically. The treats gave me the incentive to behave, confidence too. The first group that approached me of the day was a child, woman, and man. They seemed incredibly nice and I thought that man had showed some sense of interest in me. He bent down and gave me a great soothing scratch behind the ears. No one really pets you in the pound, just a pat once in a while. It felt fantastic. As usual they left thought. I saw them several times pass by as the day continued. By the time things were over there was still no catch. It was hopeless. I was hopeless.
            Three weeks had passed since my last fair. Depression really had sunk in by then. I over heard one of the people in the pound bring in a visitor and ducked my head into the corner of my crate. All remaining hope in me was gone at this point. I heard one of the visitors yell, “That’s the one we were looking for!” My only thought was there was another lucky prick being brought into a home that wasn’t me. The visitors walked to the front for a little while. Some time had passed and they returned. There was a rattling on my crate door so I looked up. A group of three stood at the front of my crate. There was an older man and woman along with their kid. The kid didn’t look that young, but still was a kid. All older humans dress alike in their odd clothing so it’s hard to give a detailed description. At the time I was completely confused; they let me out before yard time. One of them hugged my face as another scratched my back. Taking another hard look at them I realized who they were, THE child, woman, and man. I don’t know why it took so long before I noticed them. They were the nice group I saw at the fair three weeks ago! Suddenly it felt I had been hit in the face. That I had awoken from a dark, misty daze. They were adopting…
            “Peter, your new home! Welcome!” The child’s name was Ethan, the woman’s Frances, and the man’s Wallace. They were letting me out of their car. When I jumped out I was greeted with a great big white home that had an old, wooden deck attached to it. In front of the deck lay six acres of field, bushes, and beautiful trees. The yard was gorgeous green. I had not seen or even known such a place existed. Connecticut was entirely different than New York. The only tree’s I had seen before were ones that looked like large bushes around the pound. Here there were trees that shot through the clouds. “Your new home” I thought. Is this what it feels like? To have a home. I tried to soak in the moment, but the three of them were so anxious to show me everything. Ethan ran me across the never-ending property. There were gardens, stonewalls, fruits, sticks, and all you could imagine outside.
            I was still just a kid when I was adopted. Living in a house had a huge effect on me. There were so many things I had never seen before, or even thought existed. I guess you could say I was a little crazy then. If you asked my family they would say I was absolutely psycho. Excitement just came so easy and on top of it, it would never go away. People, cats, couches, food, warmth, more people, beds, family, all suddenly entered my life. How could you not go wild? Each morning I would wake to my parents getting my breakfast prepared for me, along with a bone when I was finished. After they served me my combination of beefy chicken bits and kibble I would either be allowed to roam the then unfamiliar outdoors or lounge in the house. Inside there was an armada of rooms. I think it took me almost a year to finally finish exploring them all. My fluffy, checkered bed lay in the family room. It was one of the biggest rooms in the house. One large, red, clothed sofa facing directly in front of a large, rectangular box called a television. I find television from time to time interesting with all the moving images and flashes, but humans seem to be obsessed with it. They eat, drink, even sleep in front of it for the majority of the day. Each night Wallace spends hours in front of it. I guess I’ll never understand it. Along with the family room there were others such as the kitchen, bathrooms, closets, bedrooms, laundry rooms, offices, rooms to live in, the list goes on.
            I now am older and have grown extremely attached to everyone in the family, even the cat. Although I still can’t tell if the cat is fond of me. The family calls her Flora. She is an angel with the humans; with me she acts like a rabid on the streets of New York. Certain rooms of the house she won’t let me go in or even near. And when I do go near them I get her claws to my nose, it isn’t pretty. Thankfully she has the sense not to gorge my face. She’s awfully lethal considering how small she is. Sometimes I feel like she does it all for show. When we lay at the dinner table she often lunges at me, always with a closed claw. The family thinks it’s hilarious and cheers her on. When the family is out she will venture downstairs to terrorize me and whatnot. Most times it’s fun and games, but once in a while she will be in a bad mood. Her bad mood leads to real fights, like I said though she has the sense to keep her claws closed. The family would be devastated if something happened to either of us. I respect her regardless.
            Now my wild days are behind me, as are my adventures. By now I have the house fully discovered and the outdoors completely mapped out. For the most part there aren’t many surprises left in my life. There is one though that has recently become apparent to me. A surprise that has left my heart crippled. Until recently I had not felt the agonizing pain that struck me while locked away in the pound. That hopelessness that feels impossible to shake off. This surprise made that pain come back with a crushing blow. The surprise had happened so fast. I had only minutes to let it sink in. Ethan had his bags packed and room emptied. He gave me a long rub and scratched me on the head. Next thing I knew he was out the door. At first it didn’t register. I thought he was simply going out for a brief amount of time like all the humans do. Soon I began to notice Ethan wasn’t returning. I thought something had happened to him. For weeks I would sit by the front windows of the house gazing at the driveway. Every car that pulled in gave me hope. That hoped was quickly smashed when I saw that Ethan wasn’t the person emerging from the car.  During the day I would patrol the property, scanning all the possible spots where he could be. Months had passed and there still was no sign. Eventually I found out he is living somewhere else now.
 Abandoned again.

Cole Linder

October 13th has for the past thirty-seven years been excruciatingly painful for me. As many of you know that is the date of the Midtown High Bombing in Golgotha County, CT. It is the date that has devastated my life. My name is Cole Linder; October 13th, 2008 is the day I lost both my hearing and hands. For a very long time that was the date I gave up on the world, on humanity. Now it being the 37th anniversary of the bombing I have decided to release a journal entry of mine in honor of those who were murdered that day, and to those who have had their sanity robbed from them because of it. This journal entry is incredibly personal to me. I had been very hesitant to release it until now. I wrote the journal entry posted at the bottom of this introduction when I was sixteen, only months after the event. I know some of you are innocently asking yourselves, “How in hell does he write when he has no his hands?” I luckily have a dear friend of mine who offers me his time and writes down my thoughts. At the time when I wrote this journal I was still somewhat in shock. I don’t think I had fully understood what had happened that day, I was just writing to release emotion and make sense of it all.
Thinking you’ve gone deaf, gives you a sense of death. A glimpse of your inevitable future. For going deaf is not equivalent to death itself, but it is a foreshadowing feature to deaths quiet emptiness. The feeling of having sound permanently stripped from you is imprisoning. To look around and see commotion, life’s events flowing by you on mute, is absolutely frighteningly surreal. For the first couple of seconds you feel as if you have drifted into a dream, until your mind registers all the information and that dream turns into a dark nightmare.

2008 – December 1
       Images were spinning uncontrollably at first. Each eyes 2D images struggling to align with the other. A dusty, chalky haze of debris covered every inch of the room. The plaster and brick of the wall found itself all over the classroom floor. All that was left of the walls were the metal supports holding the building up. The roomed looked like a cage, a prison. Debris grinded under my nails while I crawled in aimless circles. Only seconds had passed, but I already was noticing so much, most of it pain. The rest of my senses were confronted with confusion. With clouds of dust blocking my vision it was difficult to make out what was going on. My hearing was completely gone, in its place was a constant high pitch ringing. Time seemed to be lagged, like the worlds motions were slowed down by a five hundred ton weight. There was a gaping crater of rubble in the middle of the room. Red liquids were splattered along with thick skins across the crumbled walls and destroyed desks. The creases in my face seemed to be filled with cherry dark syrup. Through the haze I could make out other students yelling, but still couldn’t hear a thing. A boy ran from the room with something in his hand. It looked like a mangled limb, but that couldn’t have been right. Trying to pull together what was going on in my head seemed impossible. A searing pain throbbed in my head, sending crushing hurt throughout my body with every beat of my heart. I fumbled around on the broken floor until I got a hold of something to use to pull me up. Starring at the ground I saw my teacher, eviscerated and painted with the same syrup that lay in the creases of my face. An intense wave of light-headedness came crashing over me. Large hands gripped my shoulders and ripped me off my feet, taking me out of the classroom. Looking at it from the outside was petrifying. It had looked like a nuclear war had gone off inside a single room. What I thought was my classroom was a shattered hole of wreckage lying within the schools interior. The large hands began to viciously shake me. All I could focus on was the stampede of people pouring out of the exits. A stern smack hit me across the face, causing me to stare the person whom the large hands belonged to directly in the eye. I had never seen him before. He was tall, but not wide. He looked awkward for having such gigantic hands. His hair was brown and long, running down over his shoulders. He had a chain necklace dangling on his neck, but it seemed to have been broken. The chains link had been snapped in the center where a piece usually would hang. His mouth was shouting, but my world was blissfully quiet. A moment passed and I suddenly noticed he was screaming the word “BOMB!” My face dropped to the immediate realization of what had had been going on. All of the everything in my stomach began to slowly inch its way up my throat, as my stomach itself seemed to drop out my ass. With a painful swallow I resisted the urge to project the contents of my stomach all over the place. I could not comprehend how I didn’t piece together what had happened. I firmly stared my savior in the eyes to try and communicate to him that I couldn’t hear. Once again he quickly tugged my shoulders, bringing me to the exit.
I was thrown down the hill away from the school where the rest of the students remained. Still thrown back by the shock I couldn’t hold it back any longer. I threw up all that everything in my stomach. In the midst of my vomiting I caught a glimpse of the school. Smoke was billowing out all of the windows and doors. It had looked like war had struck Midtown High. I fell back onto the grass attempting to re-grasp reality. It was then that I had a chance to observe the true damage of the event. My surroundings consisted of wounded students covered in theirs and others blood and parts. Two more people franticly approached me, lifting me onto a stretcher. For some reason I did not have the strength in my body to formulate sentences or even words. They loaded me into an ambulance along with several other wounded. A woman paramedic in front of me was yelling something I obviously couldn’t hear. What seemed odd at the time though were her hand gestures. She was throwing her hands up, almost like you would to signal someone to stop. I took a glance down at myself for the first time. Images began to be incredibly hard to align again. My world was spinning rapidly out of control. My vision went in and out of blackness and blurs until I eventually passed out. There was blood splattered all across my arms. The ends of my arms had been ruptured, my hands were missing.
A troubled psychotic student who was in my class had decided to commit suicide that day. He had made a homemade explosive device that was strapped to his chest. This boys name was David Abraham. He had sat four desks away from me in my trigonometry class. In the midst of the lesson he set off his bomb that killed him along with murdering twenty-one other students. The explosion caused a section of the building to collapse and catch fire. I was one of the five survivors in the classroom. There had been a small piece of wall jutting out of the room that made a slight barrier between David and I. That wall was what had saved mine and the other four lives that day. Now I still wonder whether I was blessed or cursed.
            David Abraham had always been a removed child who was unusually distant. He was the shadow of my class. The boy that crept the hallways trying to be invisible, but instead he stood out more than anyone else. David went through stages of anger. Like me he had lived in Midtown his entire life. In junior high he had been a target of everyone in school. He was considered “normal” you could say, though he was still the person that would be picked on relentlessly. Coming into high school David had become completely different. The clothes he wore changed from Old
Navy to scene. Not angry clothing that had “fuck the world” plastered all over it. He was more subtle about it.
            After the date of the bombing a crumpled letter written by David was found discussing his suicide. In the letter he explained how he had gone through the process of creating the bomb and what he had intended to do with it. He also included why. Two weeks prior to the event he had be crucified by a fellow student of his. I don’t want to fully elaborate on what had been done to him because of the vulgarity. In short, David had been framed for doing something disgusting that he had not in actuality done. The act caused him endless humiliation along with several days of suspension. The reason for him setting off the explosive in school was to murder the student who had caused his humiliation, who had been humiliating him his whole life.

            I was that student.