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At first you think you’ve woken up in the middle of the night. You open the curtains to find a black substance coating the windows. You open one, and gallons of viscous black liquid begin pouring in. This is not a coating on your windows, this is a flood.
The water is fine and you fill any receptacle you can find. The cell phone is dead. The TV is telling you to wait for further information. The internet is slow, but alive. So far, no one on earth has seen the sun today.
I used to think I was a lonely little liar but the older I got the more praise I received and I soon realized I was simply a creative romantic intellectual. I was not being shunned by the world. I was in fact the one doing the shunning. Yes I am different but different is unique and unique is worthy of praise. I am the one who holds the mirror to society and bashes them over the head with all their sinful ills. It is I who creates to destroy. I am the master who holds the pen and I alone have the power to erase.
Do not pity me for I truly pity you. Alone I may be but more together than you could ever know.
I can create a new world in my own image. A world filled with people just like me.
A world where no one is special. No one at all.
It might seem improbable or even foolish but I like to think of myself as a master of the unlikely and even if this end I envision shall never come to be well at least I have my dreams and at least I have my memories.
We may not all be special
but isnt it pretty to think so?
Oh, you don’t want your book to totally suck? Huh. Well, maybe this is the right post for you—how to avoid those nine ways to ruin your novel.
by Scott H. Young
Starting anything new involves mistakes. Tons of them, if you plan on being good. Although you are supposed to learn from your mistakes, there are a few that often go ignored. These mistakes accompany the first phase of anything and it is easy to repeat them in everything new that you do.
I don’t claim to be immune to these mistakes. Actually, I think it is simply because I have made these mistakes myself so frequently that I’ve begun to recognize them. I believe they come up simply by virtue of the forces that cause you to start something new. Unintended side effects of motivation, breaking out of your comfort zone or ignorance.
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Ray Bradbury 8/22/20-6/5/12 (via justinpoole) |
| — | Ray Bradbury (via justinpoole) |
| — | Ray Bradbury (via justinpoole) |
I am writing in regards to my ten year old daughter, Susan. Lately she has been displaying what I can only describe as evidence of a ‘sociopathic personality’. It might be hard to believe that at such a young age such a gorgeous little girl might harbor a deep rooted evilness inside her, but I am afraid this is the case.
Only yesterday she presented me with a crayon drawing of a woman with her head severed and a bloody knife resting beside the corpse. ‘I did a drawing of you, mummy,’ she said as she handed it to me. My blood ran cold as I looked at it. The drawing was unusually descriptive (Susan’s teacher tells me that she displays a rare ‘artistic talent’ and that I should be very proud of her. We do not agree on this).
‘Don’t you like it, mummy?’ She asked me in her innocent voice when I proceeded to tear that horrible image into pieces right there in the kitchen.
‘Is this what you want?’ I screamed at her, ‘Is that what’s your going to do to me?’
At the time I was, understandably, beside myself, and without realizing it I had taken the girl by the shoulders and begun to shake her. I stopped when I realized that she was crying and I quickly embraced her and apologized. She did not accept my apology, unfairly I believe, and tore herself from my arms and ran to her room. As she ran away she screamed, ‘I hate you, I hate you, I hate you,’ over and over again in a voice I can only describe as that of a severely disturbed creature.
Dr Phil, I am not a bad mother. I do not abuse my daughter or shake her on a regular basis but things have been getting stressful around here. At night I sleep with my bedroom door locked and a baseball bat in the bed beside me. I average two or three hours sleep a night, because I hear her out there walking around, whispering to herself. On a number of occasions I am certain I have heard the knife drawer in the kitchen open and closing, followed by a devilish giggle and the sound of running feet.
The kitten I bought Susan for her tenth birthday did not last a week. One morning I found it drowned in the toilet bowl. ‘He must have wanted to go swimming,’ she said, pretending to cry. Trust me, Dr Phil, I didn’t buy this story for a minute.
A year ago my husband, Danny, died when he fell off a ladder while cleaning the gutters on our home. At first I blamed Susan’s bizarre behaviour on the traumatic loss of her dear father, but of late I have come to suspect foul play on her behalf. Danny was an experienced climber of ladders, I know that much.
I hope this letter reaches you soon, Dr Phil, and that you have the time to help me out with this predicament. I fear my time is running out. I can only stay locked in this room for so long. I hear her running, running, all night. She knocks on the door and pleads for me to come out. ‘I’m hungry,’ she says. But I won’t be fooled by her games.
Yours urgently,
