Christmas

Christmas was different. It was a white Christmas, but it was like ninety degrees outside. It was a white Christmas if and only if you consider that dirty mix of white and black sand "white". Still, it was unique: you never truly know someone until you've spent a week with them in a small room. Spending a week with my friends was torture. It's not like I hated anyone, they just get on your nerves when you're around them 24/7. Still Christmas was fun

BOOM

That's the sound I'm gonna hear all night long tomorrow. Hopefully we leave without making a crater or killing anyone, but those can be considered acceptable losses. What's not dangerous about letting off over three hundred bucks worth of fire works? I'll need a hearing aid come new year's. All I'm gonna do is light stuff and run. You would too if you had the equivalent to a quarter-stick of dynamite in front of you. If all that was between you and an explosion of epic proportions was a short fuse, a few seconds, and hopefully, a few hundred feet. Hopefully I go home with all twenty digits. If you happen to see a big flash of light, and you're within a five mile radius of me, you'll know its midnight

Yes, I Kicked Him, No, it Was Not a Foul

It was not my fault. He got in the way. His foot was between mine and the ball, and soccer is about kicking the ball. I'm not sorry: we won because of it. If he really was hurt, and not simply faking it, like I'm pretty sure he was, then I am mildly concerned. The coach didn't call a foul, so it never happened.

If your foot is between mine and the ball, and I kick yours trying to get to it, then there is no problem. If you roll on the ground trying to get the coach to call a foul, then it's your problem. If we win because you are laying sprawled, holding your ankle instead of stopping us, then it's your team's problem. If you walk around fine afterward, then it is by no means my problem. Face it, its your fault.

I confess to the fact that I kicked him, but I doubt it would have hurt him that much. If you were on his team, it was not a foul, as Coach didn't call it. We beat you fair and square

Blown Way out of Proportion

Yesterday was a normal Sunday, I woke up far too early, and got dressed for church: my nice shirt, pants, shoes, belt, tie, and my awesome Christmas-themed socks. We set off to worship forty-five minutes before church started.

By the time church ended, I was starving, begging my mom to hurry up so we could go home.

"Aren't you going to help every body set up the Christmas tree?" she asked, "You're supposed to."

I mumbled, "No one told me," and hurried off. Every one was surrounding the tree, and there wasn't much room, so me and this kid started playing catch.

We had a great time until my brother showed up and tried to turn it into Monkey-in-the-Middle, despite my repeated No's. He grabbed the ball and ran, I chased him.

Wrapping my arms around him, I wrestled for the ball. He threw it away and I pushed off him going for the ball. On his way down his head hit my knee (in the same way that a car hits a person in the way, regardless of what the person did to the car). His nose began to drip blood, and he hurried off to the bathroom. The whole ordeal lasted less than sixty seconds.

On the way home my Mom talked to my brother and I, "Someone told me, that you two were fighting, and that his," she pointed to my brother, "nose was gushing blood. You two are grounded to your rooms for the rest of the day."

My parents don't ground us too often, which is why it wasn't that bad. I had wanted to spend the rest of the day in my room anyway, but still, the way she said it, you would of thought that my brother and I were having a vicious title match, that we were at each other's throats. Whoever told her blew the story way out of proportion, I've done ten times worse and didn't get punished half as bad.

Unfair Calls

I walked into the gym. Everyone was huddled around the list. All of our names were under the names of two teams: Green and Blue, mine was under Blue. Coach walked in with the two volleyballs, we didn't have any proper handballs, so we used these. I walked to the goal, I was one of two goalies on the team and the other one wanted to score some points. I watched helplessly as Coach counted fouls against my team, but not the other (I'm not sure that we had an impartial judge).

“Holy Crap! What about their fouls?” I thought vocally, “It's not fair!”

“I Know!” The other goalie replied, all the fouls were his. The other team took a free shot, they scored.

Soon enough we found ourselves losing. Despite my best efforts, too many goals had gotten through.

The other goalie and I swapped out, and I attempted to put some points on the board, though I failed, I got some good passes. Still, the unfair calls kept on coming. Once Coach even took away from our score. Despite my anger, I kept my cool and resigned to a 6-4 loss. Still, it's hard to win when the other side has a 6-foot giant on their team.

How I spent Mothers day

My Mother's Day started out with my sister waking me up too early. Over her screams of how we had to make Mom Breakfast in Bed, I grumpily asked, "Wa ya makin?"



"Huh?" came her reply, she stared at me.



"What... are... you... making...?" I asked again, deliberately talking slower than a snail.

"Cold cereal," she replied with a tilt of her head.

My mom doesn't like cold cereal, so I had been waken up to make something that my mom didn't even enjoy. My morning went downhill from there.

Later in the day, I moved into my new bedroom after being kicked out of my old one. after spending the majority of the afternoon throwing out junk, we decorated the christmas tree. Every year my grandma sends me an ornament, so I set up all of mine, took a shower, and went to the neighbors house for dinner. When I returned home, I stayed up until 10:40 doing work, and 11:30 reading. I eventually fell asleep

My Inferno

I walked into my room, exhausted from a long day. I peered around looking at my bed, my closet, the dresser, the annoyingly bright light, my brother laying on his bed reading a book, “What are you reading?” I said, casually.

He lifted the book, just enough for me to see the cover, and kept reading. I looked at it and did a double-take, there he was, reading one of my favorite books. An inferno of hate, jealousy, and disgust coursed through my mind. He dared read it. He dared pick it up without my permission.

It was mine. I couldn't stand the fact that he had intruded into the world that belonged to me. I hated him for it. He read it, not comprehending the plot, mispronouncing the characters' names. They were mine.

He read more of my books. The inferno raged.

I couldn't stand it, I felt like he was picking off my body parts, I clung to the books I had left,dreading when he would take them. I learned that the hardest thing to share is a book.

I'm from Earth

I'm from Earth,
a wonderful planet
I've never lived
anywhere else long enough to call it "home"

I 'm from everywhere,
I go where I choose
I live where I am,
I am where I live

I remember
where I've lived
I remember
Where I've been

I yearn for
somewhere else,
I dread leaving
this place that I live

I learned to
put down
shallow roots
so when I'm replanted, I'll go easily

I don't mind
where I live
so far as
it is ready for me

I'm from Earth,
a wonderful planet
I've never lived
anywhere else long enough to call it "Home"

What Keeps Me Writing

Writing. The unrecognized art. The beauty of the ink leaving the pen, the wonderful clicking sound of the keyboard. The words that rush through my head seconds before they leave my hands.The enthralling stories that spring from my head, like Athena from Zeus's. The sense of purpose.The different, more exciting life that lives in my head and communicates through the page. The power. The amazing stories I write, not knowing where they come from, not knowing where they're going.

I write because I can, because I must. I write because I have an obssesive cumpulsive behavior that makes me write. I write because the pen is not mightier than the sword. It is a sword, used to etch stories on the souls of those who read them.

I write because of the smell of a new book, the slight crispness of the pages, the worlds that spring from their grasp, haunting me untill I pick them up again.

I write because there are places unexplored, people without names who wait for their stories to be told. I love joining the great ones, the authors, writers, and poets who pluck these stories from beyond, like picking fresh rasberries from the bush, giving them their own twist, telling the world the stories of the heroes, the lovers, the villans. They tell the stories of The princes, the knights in shining armor, the soldiers, the militia men, the freedom fighters.

The reason I write: I can.

To Whom It May Concern...

To Whom It May Concern:

School. A pseudonym for thirteen years of pivotal work. While it’s purpose is to teach students to be resilient in a turbulent life, some fail excruciatingly. It is despicable to see how many kids go out into the world having learned nothing, it would be better for them to stay home and attempt to emulate their parents, clad in lies and nothing but a cursory knowledge of the world they were derived from. They are an abrasion in society. It makes me grimace; what is the point of succumbing to mountains of work for nothing, simulating a real person? The problem is, in some cases, not in the student or parents, but in the schools who attempt to extricate themselves from the work of teaching, their gruesome sacrifice of the learning of children resides in the methods they teach with. “No Child Left Behind.” The guile of teachers leaves them, not instilling in them the imperative knowledge for life. Something is amiss. The despondent truth is that the education system’s problem is as interminable as that of the economy and health care. We must be conscientious rather than audacious, the system must be fixed.

Please Help,

CYBORGG

Rules of Writing

I love books. I can't live without them. To me, Heaven would be some kind of giant library with no late fees. Every time I see a book store my heart skips a few beats, I could live in one, surviving off words and coffee shop cookies. The only catch to this is that the book has to be written well.

I read a book (let it go unnamed) two years ago, this book had no plot until the last fifty pages (It was like six hundred pages long) and that plot was resolved by a small prank that was hardly related to the first five hundred pages and wouldn't really solve anything. This book violated my first rule: A book must have a catchy and relevant plot.

My second rule nixes out many other books: The plot and characters of a book must be original, or at least not extremely similar to another author's ideas. Have you ever noticed how after a novel sells extremely well and gets a large fan base many other authors write books with similar plots and characters? Take The Lord of the Rings for example, many fantasy novels have elves dwarves(Tolkien invented this spelling of the word) and hobbits fighting alongside humans, all of which were used in J.R.R. Tolkien's great work. Another book like this is Harry Potter. J.K. Rowling's novel was hugely popular, but soon after it came out a whole new wave of fantasy had wizards and witches battling it out. My last example is Twilight, though I have never read it, I have nothing but respect for the series. The same cannot be said for the many new vampire novels, they use Stephenie Meyer's type of vampire in their own romance novels.

My third rule is more for a case-by-case basis: swearing in books should be kept at a minimum, should be used only when necessary, and there should be limits: some language hurts the story rather than helping it. I am currently reading an anthology of short stories, the stories are well written, but the F-word just keeps popping up. This type of vulgarity makes me pop out of the story to think: "Did it just say that?", which makes me get lost for a few sentences afterwords. This is an example of going to far. Other word choices would be better

Overestimation of the Situation

I have no Idea what I was worried about. Everything I was afraid of was completely no problem: my uncle was great, Thanksgiving was awesome, and I only froze my butt off one day. I really think I overestimated the scariness of the situation. I had a great time.

When we first got there we went straight to sleep, it was one in the morning. We visited the national mall the next day, basking in all the things to do, while turning ourselves into Popsicles. We played with our cousins the rest of the night. Once we woke up, our cousins and us went to see the 9/11 memorial near the Pentagon. We played an epic game of Capture the Flag, and then went to bed.

When we woke up Thanksgiving morning, we immediately got dressed in buttoned-down shirts and slacks: we were eating at the Officers Club. The Officers Club was a big buffet with no rules, I could eat whatever, whenever.

On Friday we went to the movies and did some Christmas shopping a little later. Saturday: I went shotgun-shooting and visited a Civil War site, pulled an all-nighter and got ready to fly home. Unfortunately, the flight was canceled after we boarded, so we rented a hotel and went to see the law-enforcement memorial and museum of American history, ate at a hamburger joint, and prepared to once again wake up at one in the morning.

Through all that, I learned that you can't judge a book by it's cover, and you can't overestimate the situation. When you do, you get it wrong.

He Never Spoke Again

Ty opened the door, wincing as it creaked. Darc swore, so much for surprise. Seven heads turned to face them. Seven silenced shots rang, muffled, through the room. Seven bodies hit the floor. Ty lowered his pistol.

Picking his way through the room, Ty shoved bodies off computers and attempted to mop up blood from the screens. It was time to get to work. This city was home to a radical spokesman and his followers, Ty and Darc had a mission: eliminate him and anyone who gets in their way,

"What did you do that for?" Darc asked pointing at one of the dead technicians, " They're unarmed, they couldn't of hurt us." He sat down at a computer and looked at an open file: a map of the city with all the sewage systems highlighted, Darc printed it out, folded it, and tucked it into a pocket.

"They could have raised an alarm, besides..." Ty let the last word die as his jaw dropped, he stared at a computer screen, "This is our man, this is him"

TO\\COL. J. CARLSON\\
FROM\\CHICAGO INDUSTRIES\\

\\COL., THE OBJECTS YOU REQUESTED
HAVE ARRIVED, DO YOU WISH US TO
SHIP THEM TO YOU?\\

\\THEY ARE AS FOLLOWS:\\

\\100 S12-SNIPER RIFLES\\
\\350 XMB CARBINES\\
\\600 F23-FUSION PACKS\\
\\150 12-GAUGE-TROJAN SHOTGUNS\\

\\SHIPMENT MUST OCCUR IN NEXT 48 HOURS,
WOULD BE A SHAME IF MILITARY CONFISCATED THEM\\

Ty stared at the screen, Colonel Carlson had committed mutiny years ago, he had since spoken out against the government, he had also pilfered weapons and supplies from the military for years, which was one reason why Ty and Darc had been sent to eliminate him, but this, this was no small amount, this was a profusion of supplies, enough to raise a small army with just this shipment alone, who knew how many had happened before.

Darc stood up first, "What are we waiting for, lets kill the man already!" Darc grabbed his gear and headed out the door, rankled by the fact that the Colonel had sneaked weapons from under the military's nose.

"Sit Down!" Ty rebuked, "We're killing him, but we will not just walk out there! We will kill him so prudently that even he will not know that we were the ones who killed him!" Ty paused, "Where's the nearest sewer entrance?"

The two Marines crept through the sewer until they reached the center of the city, there he was, Colonel Carlson himself: giving a speech on how flawed the government was. Ty and Darc crept out of the sewer, inching towards the makeshift stage.

The Colonel paused in his speech, but he didn't continue speaking, he never finished his address. He never spoke again: his head was severed from his body, held together by a small piece of skin, blood seeped from his throat. Ty's knife left it as he and Darc ran firing their pistols at their pursuers. Ducking down a dark alley, they quickly scaled a building, hurling themselves onto a helicopter and flying away into the sunset. Mission: Accomplished.

The Waiting is the Worst Part of the Journey

Apprehension. Waiting. Wondering what it will be like. Hoping. Fearing. Getting ready for a

Thanksgiving unlike any other.

I typically have a very laid-back Thanksgiving, no fuss about the perfect dinner, clothes, hair. I wear whatever I like, eat whenever, don't comb my hair, don't care about how the turkey looks, I don't even really care about turkey. Not this year.

This year I'm heading to D.C. for the day that I'm supposed to be giving thanks. My mom's sister's family lives in the District of Columbia, amd I'm heading to their place. My uncle is in the Marines (he works at the Pentagon), and from what I hear he's strict on dress, etiquite, and promptness (not hat I have any major problems with any of those, but my parents are slightly lax on them). On top of that, We're eating Thanksgiving dinner in the Officer's Club: a fancy, high dress code military establishment. Plus, I haven't seen my cousins in years, and I don't know how differemt they are now. Add to that the fact that It's frigid in D.C. this time of year.

I do'nt know what to expect, I don't really know anything. All I know is that in less than twelve hours, I will be freezing my but off, and that the waiting is the worst part of the journey.