It was time. The time I had to be strong in front of my best friend, even though I knew he was about to die.

It started three days prior. We noticed Tiger walking kind of funny around the house, as if he pulled a muscle in his back legs. He would lay in out of the way places for hours on end, far longer than he normally would, without shifting position. He wouldn't eat, wouldn't drink unless the water ran from a spigot, and he didn't go in his litter box. The call was made that night, and it was my job to take him to the vet the next morning.

I woke up with Tiger still lying on my robe on the floor. He laid down there in the exact same position at seven-thirty the night before. It was now eleven in the morning, and he hadn't moved at all since last night. His fur was matted and disgusting. He just seemed to let himself go. Something was definitely wrong.

His appointment was at two-fifteen in the afternoon, so I went to his kennel and opened the door, to allow him time to crawl in himself. At two o'clock, Tiger still hadn't gotten off of my robe, so I picked him up and carried him to the kennel. I opened the top and placed him inside. He didn't resist, but instead let out a series of pathetic meowls. It killed me inside to hear it, but I tried my best to not let it get to me. I grabbed the kennel and the list of symptoms my dad typed up, and went to the car.

A short drive to the vet's office later, Tiger was still meowling, but not as frequently or as loudly as before. The doctor came out shortly after, and we walked into the examining room. I took Tiger out of his kennel and set him on the table. After some quick tests, it was determined that he was constipated. I thought that's what the worst of it was; constipation and dehydration. They would give him an enema, pump fluids into him, and we could take him home. I said good-bye, and left feeling much better.

That night, the vet called. They did some precautionary blood work, and the results were back: his kidneys were failing. There were two options: we could give him shots twice a day to keep him alive, or they could go ahead and euthanize him. After a tear-filled family meeting, we all decided that euthanization was the best option. It would be my job to go and say good-bye, on behalf of the family, for the last time.

And now the time had come. Tiger was to be euthanized at noon, and I had anytime before that to go say good-bye. At ten-fifteen, I got into my car and drove to the vet's office.

The familiar smell of pet dander and dog food flooded my nostrils as soon as I opened the door. There was an elderly man at the counter, chatting it up with the nurse at the front desk.

"Yeah, we got a call about a stray cat down on Virginia. It shouldn't take too long to catch 'im, provided that he stay on Virginia when we get there. When's a good time to bring 'im in?"

The nurse clicked her tongue in thought as she checked her appointment book. "Does four o'clock work?"

"Sounds dandy. I'll bring 'im in then. See ya."

The man nodded to me as he left. For a moment, I hated that man. He had no right to be laughing and enjoying himself hours before my cat was about to die.

"Can I help you, sir?"

I turned from the man getting into the Animal Control truck and said, "I'm here to see Tiger."

The smile vanished from her face. "Just a minute," she said, and escaped to the back room.

I paced around the lobby, mentally preparing myself for this moment. What would I say to him? It really didn't matter; as far as I knew, a creature who could spend an hour of his life chasing his own tail had a minimal grasp of the English language. But still, it would make me feel better if I said something worthwhile, even if it meant nothing to him.

I heard the familiar meowls coming down the hallway, and I was led into the examining room.

"You can spend as much time as you wish. You have free use of as much of the room as you need. When you're done, just let us know."

I thanked the nurse, took Tiger out of his cage, and sat down in the chair. He was a mess: his fur more matted and disgusting than ever before. Dried drool made the fur around his mouth dry and crusty, and he smelled as if he had spent the night in a Dumpster. Fur was coming off in clumps, and he struggled to keep his eyes open. As I held him and stroked his fur, his meowing was becoming less frequent and vocal, until he finally accepted his position, and curled up in my lap.

I scratched behind his ears, and told him that mom and dad said good-bye. I told him that it just wouldn't be the same without him curled up on my lap watching the Simpsons with me. I apologized for every terrible thing I called him, and for everytime I threw him down the stairs, and every time I would sneak up behind him and drop something, just to watch him jump up and run away. I told him I loved him and that the house just felt empty without his late-night freakouts. I told him that he was a great cat, and that there was no way he would be forgotten easily.

I scratched him under his chin, and he purred quietly. I told him that I loved him, and that I was sorry that it came down to this, but he was such an amazing cat that we couldn't stand to give him shots every day. I told him that I would miss him, and that nothing would be the same without him. After everything I told him, he softly mewed, as if to say, "I know, I understand."

I ran out of things to say, so I sat quietly, scratching his head. Tiger turned to face me, and the look in his eyes seemed to ask, "Does it hurt to die?"

"I... I don't know," I said, instantly feeling foolish for answering an unasked question. Tiger meowed as if to say, "I don't want to die."

"I don't want you to either," I said. "But it has to be done."

He turned away. "I guess," he said.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and I began to cry. My eyes leaked hot tears of grief and hopelessness. In less than an hour, my best friend was going to be lying on a table, slowly dying, and I wouldn't be able to be there with him.

Tiger lurched, jarring me from my thoughts: he wanted to get down. Slowly, I lowered him to the ground, and watched as he limped over to his open kennel. Before entering, he turned to me and mewed, saying, "It has to be done." Then he crawled into the kennel, and settled himself in.

After wiping the tears from my eyes and closing the kennel door, I entered the lobby and said, "Okay, we're ready."

The nurse took Tiger into the back room. I walked out to the lobby and saw an old man with his dog sitting in the lobby. The dog looked at my face, and let out a sympathetic "bruff". The nurse returned with his empty kennel and patted my back.

It was almost as bad as watching him die, taking the empty kennel home. I felt as if I had failed Tiger by leaving him there, but I knew it was for the better. All I had left of him was an empty kennel, and a lifetime of memories.

Tags: empty kennel, story

[The beginning paragraph is what appears at the end of Chapter 34 in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.]

Voldemort had raised his wand. His head was tilted to one side, like a curious child, wondering what would happen if he proceeded. Harry looked back into the red eyes, and wanted it to happen now, quickly, while he could still stand, before he lost control, before he betrayed fear--

"STOP!"

Harry turned around to locate the source of the sound. Out of the woods came members of Dumbledore's Army: Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, Cho, and several others, all with their wands raised. Harry was stunned. Hadn't he come into the forest with the Invisibility Cloak on? He was sure that no one could see him enter the forest.

"I heard someone talking in the forest," said Ginny, as if answering his question. "It sounded an awful lot like you, Harry, and I knew that you were going to meet Voldemort. So I rounded up as many DA members as I could, and we came here to fight with you."

"You don't understand!" Harry shouted back. "I have to do this on my own! 'Neither can live while the other survives'!"

"SILENCE!" shouted Voldemort. Turning to Harry, he said, "If your friends wish to witness your death, let them stay. In fact, let's give them a very intimate experience."

Voldemort scanned the faces of the DA members, his wand at the ready. His red slit-eyes rested on Ron, who, despite having a hardened face and stature, was overcome with a sense of fear he had never known before. Voldemort smirked, pointed his wand at Ron, and shouted, "Imperio!"

Ron jerked into a stiff, standing position. Hermione noticed a blank look in his eyes, and turned to the rest of the DA. "He's under the Imperius Curse!" she shouted. "He has no control over what he's doing! He's... he's..." Hermione burst into tears, unable to say anymore. She ran into Ginny's arms, her shoulders heaving with every sob.

Voldemort shot a sideways glance and Harry, and grinned. "Now then, boy," he said to Ron. "What sort of show shall we put on for Potter?" With a flick of the wand, Ron turned to the forest and shouted, "Accio!" From the depths of the forest, several woodland creatures flew toward Ron and landed at his feet. Ron cast various spells on the creatures, making them do things like flips, handstands, and twirls. If the situation weren't so dire, Harry would have found humor in these little animals. As it was, Harry knew it was a matter of time before --

"Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green light burst from Ron's wand, and three of the woodland creatures fell dead. The others shrieked and ran back into the forest, only to be met with their own green light and demise.

Ron then turned toward Harry, and Harry saw, for the first time, the blank look in his friend's eyes. Ron didn't appear to be himself; he stared into Harry's eyes without really seeing anything, he had no control over his actions, and if he could give any hint of independance, he surely would have indicated it to Harry. But Ron was under no control over himself. He would do Voldemort's bidding without question and without fighting back.

Voldemort's voice brought Harry back to his surroundings. "I would love to be able to do this on my own," he said, "but I'm sure I would get much more enjoyment out of watching your best friend do it." Voldemort flicked his wand, and Ron pointed the tip of his to Harry's scar. His scar had never burned with this intensity before, and Harry knew that he was about to be killed by his best friend. With tears welling in his eyes from both the pain of his scar and his impending death, Harry braced himself for the inevitable.

"Avada Kedavra!"

A flash of green light blinded everyone present, and as they gained their sight back, they could see Harry still standing. No one breathed as they watched Harry's body slowly crumple and fall to the ground. Neville's eyes went from Harry's limp and lifeless body to Voldemort's satisfied grin.

"That will be all," said Voldemort, and with a final flick of his wrist, Ron also fell to the ground. Voldemort turned and beckoned his Death Eaters. "Come," he said. "Let's finish the rest of them."

Neville's blood began to boil, and in a fit of rage, he pointed his wand at Voldemort's back and shouted, "STUPEFY!" Voldemort fell to the ground, and, after lying on the ground for several moments, shakily got to his feet.

Neville broke from the rest of the DA and stormed over to Voldemort, casting Stunning Spells every step of the way. Voldemort continuted to be flung back to the ground, getting weaker with every spell thrown at him. Voldemort raised his wand to fire back, but Neville quickly disarmed him, and cast another Stunning Spell on him. Voldemort was too weakened to rise, and Neville saw his opportunity. "Crucio!" Neville shouted, and Voldemort tensed up and cried out at the extremity of the pain.

"I don't understand," shouted Voldemort through clenched teeth. "Why am I not resisting these spells?"

"Because," Neville shouted back, "Harry was the final Horcrux, the final part of your soul left. By killing him, you've only killed yourself."

"But the prophecy --"

"-- has been fulfilled. AVADA KEDAVRA!"

A flash of green light, and Voldemort's body flew through the forest, and with a sickening crack, flew into a tree, and crumpled on the ground. Neville, breathing hard, turned to the Death Eaters, who stood in their spot in a stunned silence. He made his way through the crowd and returned to the members of the DA, who were crowded around Harry and Ron's bodies. Ron twitched and slowly sat up.

"Wha, what happened?" he asked. "The last I remember is... HARRY!"

"Harry's dead," said Neville. "You killed him under the Imperius Curse."

Ron was stunned. "But... but I can't have..."

"It was the only way to defeat Voldemort. He could have done it himself, but he got a sick sense of enjoyment making you do it. It's okay, Ron, you had no control, but the fact remains, Harry is dead, and because of it, Voldemort is, too."

Ron was surprised at the bluntness of Neville's statement, but as the reality sank in, Ron could not contain his grief anymore. He flung himself onto Harry's lifeless body and cried harder than he ever had before. Hermione, who had just stopped crying, started up again as she went to pull Ron off of Harry's body. Hagrid, who was still chained up, softly began to cry. Neville turned to Hagrid and unchained him. Hagrid walked over to Harry's body and picked it up.

"Come on," he said. "We have to tell the others."

Neville led Hagrid and the rest of the DA out of the forest and onto the school grounds. The throngs of Death Eaters and Order members were still gathering their respective dead, and they all stopped and looked at the approaching DA members. Silence fell over the grounds, and Neville held his wand to his throat.

"Attention everyone," said Neville, his voice amplified by his wand. "There is some terrible news I feel I must share with you. Harry Potter is dead."

Some of the Death Eaters cheered at the news. Neville quickly silenced them as he continued.

"However, Harry did not die at the hand of Voldemort. Our very own Ron Weasley was put under the Imperius Curse, and was forced to perform the deed that the coward Voldemort could not do himself. Do not judge Ron; in order to defeat Voldemort, Harry had to die, and because of Harry's death, Voldemort lies dead against a tree in the forest. So do not mourn Harry's death; rather, celebrate your freedom from Voldemort's rule."

The members of Hogwarts began to cheer at this news, and the Death Eaters slunk back into the shadows. Hagrid carried Harry's body to the rows of others who had died in the fight, and laid him at the front.



Several years passed, and the wizarding world was back on its feet. Harry's sacrifice was not forgotten, and his portrait now hangs in the Great Hall, providing the incoming students a role model of excellence, courage, and sacrifice.

Tags: fanfic, harry potter and the alternate ending, story

The Teacher said unto the Student,
"My Son, follow my instruction,
And you will succeed,
For I am wise
And you are inexperienced.
I have encountered many trials
And challenges
That you could only dream of.
My knowledge of the world
Far exceeds yours.
It would be of your best intentions
To obey my teachings
Until the time comes
When you can teach others."

The Student said unto the Teacher,
"But, Teacher,
If I follow your instruction,
How will I experience the world
In the way that I must
To become my own person?
While it is true that you are experienced,
Your experiences will not be mine own.
Where you have travelled left,
I may go right,
And where you have travelled up,
I may go down.
How do you truly know that your instruction
Is for mine own good?"

Teacher to Student,
"My Son, you must learn to obey,
For disobedience breeds disrespect,
And disrespect breeds violence.
Where others have shunned my teachings
And have slaughtered thousands,
My hope is you follow them,
And better the world."

Student to Teacher,
"But, Teacher,
If I stay sheletered under your word,
I may not have the experience
For an ever changing world.
For what was taboo in your world
Is the norm in mine own,
And what was the norm in your world
Is obsolete in mine own.
Therefore, should I not travel on mine own accord,
To better mine self and the world around me?"

Teacher to Student,
"My Son, you must learn to trust,
For distrust breeds fear,
And a fearful culture breeds a hateful culture.
I tell you, trust your elders,
They are much wiser than yourself,
And will lead you to the path of wholesomeness."

Student to Teacher,
"But, Teacher,
You have yet to prove yourself to me.
One would think
That such a wise Teacher as yourself
Would be able to convince me,
A lowly Student,
To obey your teachings
To the strictest standards.
Yet, here I sit,
Bickering with you,
Unmoved from my disobedience.
There are no doubt people that honour you
As I do.
However, I am yet to be convinced
That you are as wise as you claim you are.
For is it not your culture
That causes violence and fear?
Is it not your culture
That slaughters for wealth?
Is it not your culture
That is the cause of the atrocities of man?
With this evidence upon you,
How can you possibly convince others
That your teachings are wise and pure?"

The Teacher sat motionless,
imploring the Student with his eyes.
Finally, the Teacher heaved a great sigh,
And with a weary voice, said,
"My Son, you are indeed wiser than I.
Neither I, nor my culture,
Have thought about what our actions have caused.
We have blamed our children's disobedience
On outside influences,
When it was us that influenced them.
My Son, I thought it impossible,
But you have truly taught the Teacher.
Go, and proclaim your knowledge,
For you are ready to begin life anew."

Tags: poem, teacher

[NOTE: This piece was inspired by listening to a talk by Dr. Maya Angelou. She talked about being a "light" and inspiring other people. This is my interpretation on being a "light" for someone.]

This little light of mine,
I’m gonna let it shine!

Daniel was your typical business man trying to make it to the top. He worked late often, and it’s taken a toll on any sort of relationship he may try to start. His last girlfriend was so sick of his intense work ethic that she left him after he left for work. She left a note that simply said, “It was me or your job. Be happy with your decision.”

Daniel was walking home on that night. His car had broken down the day before, so he had to take public transportation to and from work until it was repaired. He took a taxi as long as he could, but he soon realized that the bus is cheaper, and neither the bus driver nor the other passengers wanted to strike up a conversation as the taxi driver would. Daniel could be alone in his own thoughts, surrounded by people, and it suited him just fine.

But this day, he had no change, and not enough money for a taxi, so he decided to walk. Walking, he quickly discovered, is a lot different than riding a bus. The most obvious difference was the time of travel. It was still only 10 city blocks from his office to his house, but in the time it took for him to travel four blocks on foot, the bus had reached and even surpassed his house. The other difference was the people he encountered. The bus only had the occasional freak that would ride the bus and never get off; now every corner had its own blind man, or Vietnam vet, or heroin addict needing a quick fix. Daniel quickly became very aware of his surroundings, hugging his briefcase and quickening his pace.

As he passed an alleyway, he heard a moan. His head told him to keep walking and not get involved, but his gut turned him around and made him investigate the sound. A scream lodged in his throat at the sight of him, a young man no older than 17, lying in the fetal position, naked, covered in blood and bruises, moaning and sobbing.

Daniel dropped his briefcase and ran to the man. He turned the man to his side and wiped the blood from his swollen eyes. Daniel called out to any passerby to get help, and only one person listened and called the police. Daniel stayed with the man and talked to him. He found out that the man’s name was Tyson, and he had only gone into the alley with the promise of drugs. He had barely gotten into the alley when he was hit from behind with a baseball bat, and everything was a blur from there.

The emergency medical technicians arrived within a half-hour, loaded Tyson on a stretcher, and, with a roar of the sirens, carried him off to the hospital. Daniel was initially barred from riding in the ambulance with Tyson, but one of the technicians allowed him in the back. After arriving at the hospital, he told the lady at the front desk that he would pay for most of Tyson’s stay at the hospital. With the weight off his shoulders, Daniel got his bearings, and walked the rest of the way home.

This little light of mine,
I’m gonna let it shine!

Tyson was a lucky one. The injuries he sustained in the alley that night would have killed him if it hadn’t been for Daniel’s quick thinking. A two month stay at the hospital was all it took for Tyson to get back on his feet. He walked out the doors, took a look at his surroundings, and decided he should get his GED.

Due to a poor home life, Tyson felt no need for school. He was only there because it kept the law off of his back. He became addicted to drugs at an early age, and at the age of 16, he dropped out of school. He hopped from job to job, only working to get money to feed his addiction, whereupon he would be fired for failing a drug test. That night he had just been fired from his job at Subway, and he was walking to the bank with his last paycheck, the back already signed. He had done this ever since he started working; the quicker he could get his money, the quicker he could get his fix, the quicker he could start looking for his new job.

As he passed the alley, a couple of his friends called him over, saying that they had his fix for half the cost. He had gone no further than the shadow of the building before the bat made contact with his back, knocking the breath out of him. It was a blur from that point on, until Daniel arrived at his side, calling for help.

But that was in his past. He was going to apply for his GED, and he was off drugs for good. But first, he had to get a job. He had worked at, and subsequently been fired from, nearly all of the fast-food restaurants in town, so there was no chance for him to gain employment from there. On a whim, he decided to go to the library and look through the want ads in the newspaper.

On his way he met up with a young boy sitting on the curb, crying. The boy was dressed in a shirt that fit a bit too snug on his body and jeans with rips and tears in various places, with a large dirt stain on the seat. Tyson pitied the boy; he knew that this must have been what he looked like once upon a time. Tyson sat next to the boy and started talking to him. Tyson asked him what he was doing out on the curb, and the boy explained that he had been playing in the house, and his drunken father hit him and sent him out of the house. The boy had wandered around for a while, until he was so fed up with walking that he sat on the curb and began to cry.

Tyson felt sorry for the boy, and he had some money from a few get-well-soon cards, so he decided to treat the boy for some ice cream. The two walked and talked to the ice cream shop, where they both ordered a vanilla cone. They ate and laughed together, and after the ice cream was finished, the boy ran home in high spirits. Tyson, feeling good about himself, walked back to his home, determined to find a job tomorrow.

This little light of mine,
I’m gonna let it shine!

Jacob had no idea who that man was seven years ago, but he was eternally grateful for his actions. Jacob had been abused by his father for some time, and he naturally assumed that all men older than him acted this way. All men older than him would drink themselves to a drunken stupor everyday and hit little children. The arrival of this mysterious man into his life had changed his perspective. This mysterious man had made Jacob realize that there were people out there that wanted to know him and be with him.

Jacob wrote poetry and short stories to help himself deal with his abusive father, but he had never thought anything of it until one of his teachers in middle school noticed a piece of paper with the beginnings of a poem on it. What was on the page was exquisite, so the teacher wrote a note on the page, folded it, and taped it to the door with Jacob’s name on it.

Jacob came to the school and noticed the piece of paper with his poem and an encouraging note, and decided to focus his energy on his writing. All through his high school career, he would submit works to be published, and he would consistently get a poem or a story published. He was recognized at graduation as “Woodbury’s Own Poet Laureate”, and got a writing scholarship to one of those prestigious writing colleges. His first book was published when he was only a junior, and was celebrated as an outstanding collection of personal narratives and essays. Since then, he’s had several more works published, each of which has been dedicated to “The Mysterious Man Who Changed My Life”.

Kathy, a girl of only 15, studied a story out of one of these books in her American Literature class. It was a story about a man who came upon a small boy crying on the curb. Kathy enjoyed the story so much that she signed up for a mentorship program run by her school, in hopes that one day, she, too, would be able to inspire and lead a young child to their dream.

Let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!

Tags: let it shine, story

My best friend died last night. He was stabbed five times in the chest. They say he bled out in the middle of the street, writhing in pain, his screams falling on the deaf ears of a sleeping city. The city is a deep sleeper; he didn't have a chance.

The police say they have no leads, but I can tell you who did it. I knew it had been a long time coming. It all started in middle school. That's when I first got to know him. That's when he got to know him, too. He had always been an angry man, and I knew he was going to kill my friend someday. But no one else seemed to know; they seemed oblivious to my friend's actions, and his reactions. But I noticed, and I knew one day he was going to snap.

My friend always seemed to do something to set him off, but he wouldn't come right out and admit it. He always seemed to fume. For weeks on end he would just sit there, staring at my friend, muttering to himself. Every few weeks or so, he would come to school with cuts and bruises on his hands. He said he went home and punched holes in the walls in his room, and he would always blame it on my friend.

Things didn't get better as we moved onto high school. We were all in band together; my friend played the trumpet, and he and I played percussion. He would always get shots of revenge at my friend, and he loved playing the mallets because of it. MY friend would reach back and play with the xylophone, and he would smack my friend in the hand with one of those hard plastic mallets. That would make my friend wince in pain, and my friend would glare at him, and he would just grin back at him. Only it wasn't those "just kidding" grins; it almost seemed like one of those foreshadowing grins.

As we continued though high school, he and my friend seemed to be in a constant duel, getting people to pick sides. Most of my other friends would side with my friend, and a lot of the other percussionists would side with him. I sided with him, too; what my friend was doing was disrespectful to the percussion section, and it really needed to stop.

Junior year, I saw a side of him that I had never seen before. My friend, after band one day, began playing on the percussion equipment. While we told my friend to quit, he just went back there, grabbed a chime mallet, and hit my friend in the head. My friend wasn't knocked out, but he was bleeding from the ears. My friend also started to cry; no one had ever seen my friend cry, but he was bleeding pretty badly, so no one blamed him. Meanwhile, he had to talk to the band teacher. He wasn't punished, which made a lot of people mad, but none of the percussionists blamed him for doing what he did.

Last night, he and I were going for a drive. I forget what my friend did that day, but it really pissed him off. He was swearing up a storm the whole ride, and didn't quit until he saw my friend's truck in front of us. He followed my friend for a long time, then finally took a different corner. He gunned it down McMillan Street and T-boned my friend's truck.

My friend hopped out of the truck and started swearing at him. But he was eerily calm. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife. My friend stared wide-eyed at the knife, and stopped talking. But it didn't matter; he lunged at my friend and stabbed him in the heart.

"That's for not listening to me!" he shouted.

"That's for being a dick to everyone!" he shouted after a second stab.

After the third stab, he shouted, "That's for not knowing your place!"

The fourth stab was because he had no respect for people around him. According to him, at least.

After a while, he stabbed my friend a fifth time in the throat. He got up close to my friend's face and said, "That's for not dying when I hit you with the mallet." Then he put his knife away and drove home.



My best friend died last night. I stabbed him five times in the chest. And you know what? I'm glad he's dead.

Tags: my best friend died last night, story

I died just a little inside
(save me from drowning)
I cried just a little inside
(save me from things unseen)
I choked up a little today
(but i kept composure)
I lost it a little today
(think i'm going crazy)

See how far I've fallen?
(get up, get up, gotta keep on your feet)
But I'm going further still
(gotta get up, gotta keep upright)
I grab onto the sides
(but i keep sliding down)
Grabbing at air
(as i keep sliding down)

Save me
(you know what to do)
Save me
(you know what to do)
Save me
(you know what to do
just grab my hand
we'll make it through)

I keep wondering how I
Go from the frying pan
Into the fire.
I keep my body alive
(while losing my soul)
Rise up
Fall down
(it's a vicious, neverending cycle)

I stumble and fall
(get up, get up, gotta keep on moving)
I don't think I'll make it
(keep your hopes high
you'll make it if you try)
I trudge on, dragging my feet
(the journey of a thousand miles
begins with a single step)

Tags: journey of life, poem

Things are clearer now than they've ever been before.
I'm percieving things formerly unpercievable,
Experiencing things I was unable to experience,
Attaining things I thought was unattainable.

I'm learning more about others
Than I can learn about myself.
So many layers,
And so many faces,
In so many scenarios
At so many places.

What I've held back for so long
Has finally shone through.
I'm not the shy, reserved kid anymore.
I'm letting my true colours shine
Without a care in the world.

I've stumbled in my past;
We all have.
But when it happens,
We should pick ourselves up by our bootstraps,
Brush the dirt off of our pants,
And keep on truckin',
Because it's the only way you can get the clarity
That I have obtained.

Tags: clear, poem

I
"What've ya got?" demanded Captain Rogers. He had just gotten the call about an accident on Virginia Avenue. Three automobiles, five victims, all deceased. It was an investigator's worst nightmare: multiple deaths, no leads, and no verifyable witnesses. But one of his subordinates, Lieutenant Richards, called in saying that a witness was found and was being detained.

"Right now," replied Lt. Richards, "I have my only witness sitting by himself in the interrigation room."

"And why is he not being interrogated?" implored Capt. Rogers.

"Because he won't talk," answered Lt. Richards. "He's a savant."

"A what?" asked Capt. Rogers.

"A savant," repeated Lt. Richards. "Our witness has Savant Syndrome. It's a form of severe mental retardation. He has no speech skills at all. He can only communicate through a series of loud shrieks. It's a tough call: I have no idea what he's saying, but he's our only witness, and protocol says we have to detain him until we get a statement."

Capt. Rogers looked at their witness. He was a middle-aged man with a graying, haggard beard. He wore a tattered beige trenchcoat, jeans stained with mud and other unidentifyable substances, and a dated shirt, probably from the late '80s-early '90s. "Have you tried getting him to write a statement?" asked Capt. Rogers.

"Yes, sir," came the reply.

"And?"

"He is incapable of writing. Pair that up with his inability to speak, and you have shit for a witness. He didn't pay attention to anything I asked him, either. He just... sat there and doodled."

Capt. Rogers took a sip of his coffee. "Doodled, you say?" he wondered. "May I have a look at these doodles?"

Lt. Richards reluctantly pulled out the paper and passed it to the captain. Capt. Rogers opened it to the back, which was blank and a logical place to draw. But it was empty. Capt. Rogers flipped the paper over to the front side. The witness had somehow managed to make an intricate drawing using the lines given for a written statement. Several panels of different scenarios were scattered around the paper.

In the upper righthand corner, the witness interpreted the lines to be the bars of a jail cell. An old man with seemingly thousands of wrinkles stared blankly back at Capt. Rogers. The old man's long, flowing beard effortlessly whirled and twirled around the bars of the jail cell, and merged seamlessly into another drawing, of which the given lines were complicated mazes. Several elaborately drawn figures were travelling down, up, over, and through the lines, pausing every so often to take part in some sort of ritualistic dance to please some undefined gods.

In the lower lefthand corner of the paper, Capt. Rogers noted a small scene involving a rusty truck at the corner of the street. The half completed truck was abruptly finished with a sharp, dark line travelling down to the bottom of the page.

"What the hell is this?" asked the captain.

"He started drawing that when I told him to stop screwing around and write down what he saw," replied Lt. Richards. "Once he started drawing the truck, I pulled it away from him, and gave him a speech about the obstruction of justice. That's when I left the room and called you."

Capt. Rogers glared at Lt. Richards. Richards, dumbfounded, asked if anything was wrong. Capt. Rogers told him that there was a while hell of a lot wrong, and immediately ordered Lt. Richards to get reams of drawing paper, colored pencils, charcoal, and anything else that would be needed to get as accurate of a pictoral statement as he could.

Lt. Richards, confused but compliant, ran off to get the supplies. Capt. Rogers went into the room. The witness looked at Rogers for a few seconds, smiled, then shrieked shrilly, clapping his hands, bouncing up and down, and bursting into laughter. Captain Rogers smiled inwardly and kept his witness comfortable.


II
Lieutenant Richards arrived twenty minutes later, carrying several reams of drawing paper, charcoal and colored pencils, shading sticks, and kneaded erasers. The witness sat in awe of all of the available supplies. Immediately, he reached for a charcoal pencil. Captain Rogers shouted, "Halt!" and the witness withdrew his hand.

"Now," said Capt. Rogers calmly, "I want you to draw us, as detailed as you can, on as many sheets of paper as you need, what you saw tonight. When you are finished with one scene, set down your supplies, and we will rplace your paper. Nod if you understand."

The witness nodded, and grabbed the charcoal pencil and a sheet of paper. Rogers and Richards watched as the openeing scene began to unfold: A rusted green truck with two passengers in it was sitting on the corner of Virginia and Bristol Avenues. The electronic message board of a nearby bank reported the time as 2:43 AM and the temperature as 61°F.

As more paper was being used, the more the scene developed: the occupants of the green truck began to pull out into the intersection. A tan sports car did not see them and plowed full speed into the truck. The truck spun completely around, its bed launching the sports car directly into a tree in front of the bank, where the electronic message board advertised the "Tree of Life" downtown. The truck, being completely reversed, sat in the middle of the intersection. The passenger of the truck leaned out of the window, bleeding from the left side of her face, her right eye partially closed and also bleeding. She appeared to be screaming. The witness drew every movement of her mouth off to the side of the original mouth. She appeared to be screaming "Help us."

At that time, a jet black Jeep was screeching to a halt. It had a mother and a small child inside. The Jeep started to veer to the left. The small child stood on the seat, and as the back of the Jeep hit the truck, the child head crashed through the window. The impact forced the child's head completely through the glass, upon which her neck was sliced. She bled to death.

The impact also turned the Jeep, so that it would collide parallel to the truck. The Jeep's initial impact lurched the truck, causing the woman to fall forward. Her head was crushed by the side of the Jeep.

Blood and glass were strewn about all over the street. The view of the drawings changed from that bloody accident to a man in a tattered trenchcoat and stained jeans with a graying, haggard beard. He was screaming, apparently for help. The whole event used over fifty sheets of paper, the last few of which had stains from the tears of the witness.


III
Lieutenant Richards and Captain Rogers studied the drawings, rich in detail, vibrant in color, and seemingly flawless. They decided that it would have to do for now. They thanked the witness and showed him out. The witness smiled and hugged the two officers.

As the witness walked toward his unknown destination, Lt. Richards turned to Capt. Rogers and said, "Can you believe that retard? Who the hell does he think he is?"

"I don't know," replied Capt. Rogers. "But I'll tell you what I think he is: the best damn witness I've ever had the pleasure of working with."

With that, Captain Rogers collected the supplies and the drawings, and left Lieutenant Richards in the doorway of the station, digesting the captain's words.

Tags: picture worth 1000 words, story

[ring, ring]
"9-1-1 Emergency--"
"I need an ambulance NOW!"
"What seems to be the prob--"
"There's blood everywhere!"
"What happened, ma'am?"
"I heard a gun shot, and I ran into the house and found him here!"
"Where is 'here', ma'am?"
"Oh my God, all of the blood!"
"Ma'am, can you--"
"Send an ambulance! The body is twitching!"
"Ma'am, I have the address you're calling from as 1219 Franklin Drive, is this correct?"
"All the blood..."
"Ma'am? I need you to cooperate."
"I ju-- I just can't..."
"Ma'am?"
[sound of body falling onto the floor]
"Ma'am? Ma'am, answer me."
[silence]
"Dispatch, we need police and EMT units at 1219 Franklin Drive..."


Mark drove as fast as he could to the house. He arrived as the ambulance left the house, sirens blaring and tires squealing as it rounded the corner toward the hospital. He climbed out of his car and passes Sarah talking to a police officer, wrapped in a blanket, with another officer standing behind her in case she fainted. He walked toward the house and was stopped by another officer.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said. "No one is allowed to cross this line."

Mark searched for the words. "I'm his-- well, was his... I am his father."

The officer looked for sincerity in Mark's eyes, then allowed him to cross the police tape and led him into the house. The living room seemed neat and orderly. The hallway had two coats on the floor, with three still hanging up. They turned into the kitchen, and he saw the knife drawer pulled out of its place. Knives were scattered all over the floor, and there was a trail of bloody footprints leading out of the kitchen, as if someone had stepped barefoot into a puddle of blood and ran away.

Mark dashed out from behind the officer. The officer, taken aback, shouted after Mark, "Excuse me, sir, you aren't allowed that way." Mark paid him no heed, and followed the blood trail upstairs to the trophy room. The bloody footprints made their way to an empty gun rack. A look of horror came over Mark's face as he realized what had happened.

Mark continued to follow the bloody trail and eventually found himself in his son's room. He nearly threw up at the sight that beheld him: a large red blood stain greeted the eye on the far wall. A dark red blood pool was coagulating in the middle of the room. Bits of skull and brain matter were spread throughout the room. A large filet knife, covered in blood, lay six feet from the blood pool. Mark turned and exited the room. He met the officer he ran away from coming down the stairs and said, "I want a police escort."


At speeds of over 100 miles per hour, the officer rushed his way to the hospital. Cars slow to pull over were nearly run off the road. They were at the hospital in a matter of minutes. Mark climbed out of the car, ran into the hospital, went up to the front desk and said, "I'm Sean's father. Where is he?"

The exasperated nurse pointed to the OR, and immediately Mark ran in that direction. He pushed nurses and doctors aside and nearly knocked several elderly gentlemen to the ground. Mark skidded to a halt in front of the OR, but was denied access inside without the proper attire.

After being fitted with scrubs, Mark calmly but quickly walked into the OR and made it to the table as the doctors pronounced Sean dead. Mark looked at the corpse of his son. The back of Sean's head was almost entirely missing, his eyes sinking into the empty skull, several teeth missing from the mouth.

Mark then noticed some unusual scratches on Sean's chest. Partially obscured was the word "HAVE". Mark thought back to the last time they talked.

"Sean, why have you not cleaned up your room?"
"I'll get to it, Dad. I'm just really busy right now."
"Busy doing what? Looking up porn on the internet?"
"Dad! I'm doing a project on eastern religions!"
"You said that the last time I caught you looking at porn. Either you're really interested in eastern religions, or you're hiding something."
"I'm not hiding anything! Why can't you trust me?"
"Because you can't be trusted! Now when will you cut this crap out?"
"When you finally treat me like an adult!"
"The only way I can treat you like an adult is if you act like one! Now if you'd just grow up and mature a little bit, we can have an intelligent discussion and I'll treat you like an equal!"
"Do you really want me to mature?"
"Yes I do! I don't want you going through life thinking that everything is a game all the time!"
"Fine! If you want me to mature, I'll mature!"
"You can start by cleaning up your room!"
"FUCK MY ROOM!"
"Don't you speak that way around me!"
"I can speak however I fucking want to around you!"
"Sure you can if you want a beating!"
"Fine, see if I give a shit if you beat me!"

Mark winced as he remembered how he had whipped Sean with his belt. He could still see the bruise on Sean's shoulder where the belt buckle made a loud, sharp *crack* against the bone. Mark remembered how well Sean took the pain, even having enough strength to spit at Mark before he got another whip across the face, characterized by an impressive bruise on Sean's cheek.

Mark slowly slid the sheet down Sean's body, revealing the words "HAVE I". Mark was afraid of what he was about to see. Slowly, the doctors filed out of the area where Mark stood next to his son. As the word "MATURED" slowly came into view, the officer touched Mark's shoulder and said, "Sir, we should probably get out of here."

Mark turned to the officer. "Not yet," he said. "I have to do this."

The officer nodded, and left the room. Mark continued to slide the sheet down his body. As the final word was revealed, Mark choked back tears. He left the sheet down where it was, and gently kissed Sean on his forehead. As Mark left the room and met up with the officer, he couldn't hold it any longer and broke down. The officer sat Mark down in a chair in the waiting room, and stood watching this grown man cry like a small child at the death of a pet.


The body sat alone in the OR. Blood was still slowly dripping onto the floor. The body grew paler and paler with each passing moment. On Sean's chest, still glistening due to the freshness of the cuts. Brilliantly visible was the final question Sean would ever ask his father:

"HAVE I MATURED YET?"

Tags: have i matured yet, story

You're invited to a Funeral.
The time has finally come.
I'm burying my Shortcomings
And giving Them to the One.

My Faults were put to sleep
With a quick shot of Confession.
I've finally rid myself of
Every last Transgression.

They lie in a casket
Made from Hopes and Dreams.
At last, I've cured myself
Of this horrible Disease.

Now, here comes the time
For joyous Celebration
Funerals like this happen
Across every single nation.

You're invited to a Funeral
I hope you can attend.
Off into Oblivion
Is where They will be sent.

Tags: invited to a funeral, poem