Untitled entry #2

Continued

            …He froze for a moment, then started to walk backwards, too afraid to look away from the lanky creature.  He stepped on the glass again, it gashed right in the same place on his foot as before.  It was bleeding very frantically now, and if he didn’t get it patched up in the next ten minutes, he would definitely go unconscious.  He was in a part of the hallway he hadn’t been to yet.  It smelt extremely horrific, but he could not figure out what it was.  The thing was still mere feet behind him, groaning increasingly loud.  With every step it took it felt like a small earthquake.  It was everything he could do to stay ahead of it, but it was so dark and he was slipping on the tile from his wound with every step he took.  He tripped over something.  It was soft and mushy.  It was too dark to make it out, but when he used his hand to prop himself up, he felt its face.  It was human, that was for sure, and it definitely wasn’t alive.  Then it sunk its teeth right into his hand.  Suddenly he could hear grotesque, mutilated sounds from all around him.  He sprung to his feet.  Then the creature was so close he could feel its steely breath on his shoulders.  He ran as fast as he could now.  He could feel the bodies around him rising up from the floor.  Their heads were brushing past his abdomen.  He was even touching shoulder to shoulder with some of them.  He could see a white light at the end of the hallway that he had just turned into.  He had done it.  He was home-free.  He couldn’t be more than thirty, maybe even twenty yards away.  Then, silhouettes started filling up the white space.  They were rising up from the floor, slowly like the others, and more were funneling in from the open rooms lining the hallway.  He looked behind him and the shifty footsteps were getting ever closer, as well as the monstrous footsteps from the creature.  He opened up the door nearest to him, only to come face to face with half a dozen more of them.  He did his best to hurry and close it, but they were to strong and too many.  The gap between the herd behind him and the ones in front was getting tighter and tighter.  There were only a few unopened doors to try before he would be overrun.  He opened up door after door, only to be greeted by musky breath, dead eyes, and hands reaching out as if for a loving embrace.  Only it was anything but.  He knew that when the first one bit him on the hand.  There were only two or three doors left now.  He opened the next one.  There were more of the “humans”, but there was a light on in this room.  It shined into the hallway and he could see something twinkling, perhaps made of some sort of glass.  He ran hastily to it, picked it up, and had but mere seconds to inspect it.  It was a SWAT riot shield.  Then claws were digging into the back of his neck and head.  He swung it at them, knocking several to the ground.  He was weak, and the shield was heavier than it looked, but he knew what he had to do.  He squarely positioned his body behind the shield, took a deep breath, and started sprinting with everything he had left. 

Part 3

Coming Soon

It's that time again!

JEALOUSY (Heheheh, we meet again...)

On Turning Ten by Billy Collins
Click HERE to read the best poem ever

I bet a Jap-load of people are gonna' choose On Turning Ten as the poem they are jealous of, but that's okay. I'm not going to choose another poem that I'm NOT as jealous of just because less people are going to choose it, or in other words, I'm not going to be a hipster/indie douche.

On that note, let's get right into it. On Turning Ten by Billy Collins. Where do I begin? Where do you begin with a poem like this? Should it even be considered a poem, or rather a religion? Because this poem is my life, rather than the blood of Christ or the Book of Mormon. This thing just hits me hard, and it doesn't let me get back up.

"You tell me it is too early to be looking back," Are you freaking kidding me? I feel like that line is a summary of my life. No one has told me personally that I'm too young to be looking back, but I'm still guilty of it. At fifteen I was looking back on how fun and rebelious I was at thirteen. At seventeen I thought to myself how good and carefree life was at fifteen. I am now eighteen and I find myself all too often going "Agh, why is life so complicated?", but little do I know that in four years I'll be in a reflective sort of mood and think to myself, "Man, what I wouldn't give to be eighteen again."

There are a billion reasons why this poem makes me jealous, but it really comes down to two specific reasons. One- the writing. Billy Collins is just unparalleled. He's the Spielberg or Scorcese of poem writing. I dream of the day when I can be HALF as good a writer as he is. Two- the meaning. I don't know if I'm so much jealous of the protaganist of this poem as I am familiar with him. I feel as if Billy Collins is writing about me. So I guess I'm jealous of myself? I dunno'. I feel like I'm rambling. I probably lost a lot of readers at the "hipster/indie douche" part, because there are so many of them at Lone Peak. Anyways, to those of you who read the whole thing, you get a figurative pat on the back. Ooo, nice muscles.

Untitled entry #1

            The blood was clogging up his airway, that’s the only reason he woke up. Otherwise he probably would’ve been out for a few more hours. It took a few moments for his eyes to come into focus. He stuck some gauze up his nose to stop the bleeding. From what he could tell, lying form his bed, there was no one else in the hospital. The whole place was ransacked. There were tables and mattresses lying about and the blinds had been replaced by thick blankets, allowing only a small amount of light in. He managed to get to his feet when all the sudden it hoofed across the end of the hallway. He was able to catch a glimpse of it. He could definitely tell this *thing* wasn’t human. But somehow, he could eerily remember it. He knew that he’d never seen anything like it before, but something was telling him to approach it, that this thing would help him out of his situation. He slowly started creeping towards the end of the hallway. His feet felt heavy, his hands, icy. He stepped on a piece of glass. It didn’t do much, but he could definitely use a bandage. Then he looked up from his foot and there it was again, this time motionless, staring at him. It was at least seven feet tall. He was frozen in his tracks. Should he approach it further? Should he stay where he is? Should he turn around and run? Before he could make up his mind it started moaning and growling. It was a sound he had never heard before; almost a mix between a wolf and a whale. It started off somewhat quiet at first, then it got so loud it felt like the room was shaking. It started shuffling towards him…

Part 2

Coming Soon

...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...................

I'm just gonna' come right out and say it, I dream about making sweet love. Sweet, SWEET love. That's as much as I'm gonna' say about that though, you sick perverts. Or am I the sick pervert for dreaming about making love? Doesn't everyone dream about that? What if you don't dream about making love? Does that mean something's wrong with you? Should you see a doctor? Should I see a doctor? Are you missing the part in your brain that makes you love? Or is it your heart that makes you love? I'm pretty sure your heart is just for pumping blood or something like that, I'm not a doctor or anything. So I'm like 78.43% sure it's your brain that tells you how to love. What's that? What else do I dream about besides making love, you ask? Well sheesh, lots of stuff! I dream about flying, battling shark people, being chased by a headless horseman, coming to school without any pants on, looking in the mirror and a monster is looking back at me, getting a brand new, expensive car then crashing it, running away from an unknown threat and all the sudden my legs stop working and they catch me, being in a room full of dolls and they all follow my every movement with their piercing little eyes, being chased by prisoners and more and more keep coming until they catch me and beat the living tar outta' me and I wake myself up before I die...Yeah, I should probably see a doctor...

There I am. Eating yellow snow again.

It seems like this has been happening a lot lately. The snow is white. I pick it up. Still white. I ponder it intentively, glistening in my palm. Still white. I take a bite out of it and what do you know? It's yellow. There I am. Eating yellow snow again. I wish it would just stay white.

What-the-freak-ever

Courage is lying about not doing this assignment until two hours before it's do. It's knowing no one is going to read this post on my blog. Well, okay, maybe a few people will read it, perhaps not even READ it, but rather skim through it. I wouldn't be surprised in the slightest if no one commented on it. And if by the grace of Zeus himself there happens to be a comment, it will be out of pity, and to make that other person feel good about themselves for posting a comment on this blog. So go ahead, have some pity and comment down below. Whoa, I'm sorry. Courage, right? Got a little lost back there. Courage, is that a verb or a noun? A verb if you're saying "I'm being so courageous right now." But maybe a noun when you say "No one has any courage anymore." Man, I dunno. I'm tired. I had a long mutha-effin' weekend. It wasn't necessarily bad, but it wasn't great. Shiz. Courage. Right. Ummmm. Oh, I got it. Have a little courage (and yes, a little pity) and post a comment on this page. G'head. Do it.