31/04/08 (Short Story 2)

I was waiting outside of her room in the ICU. Her door opened and a nurse stepping out, pushing a cart of medical tools. I could see the blood on her gloves and I knew they had been operating. I immediately stood up to the nurse, asking if I could see her yet. No, she said, it was still family only. I slumped back into my chair, my head still pounding.

“Let’s go to a party,” she had said to me.

“Okay,” I had said, but she knew there was no need to ask because I would go anywhere with her.

We went to the party, and it was a lot of fun. They were drinking, though, and I hate when they drink.

Minutes were passing and I could hear beeping and crying and all I could think about is if I could have done something. The nurse had said she was going to make it but I’m still worrying about what will happen when she wakes up.

At the party, my friends and I were the only ones who weren’t drinking. I know she was drinking but I didn’t want to tell her not to, because I didn’t want her upset with me. I watched her with her friends from the other side of the room, and I could tell she was far past tipsy.

Then she came up to me, and told me she wanted to go home. I offered to drive her, but she said no, she wanted to drive herself. I told her she couldn’t drive herself when she was under the influence, but she was already walking out of the room, her back to me.

Her parents were here now. They were sitting on the other side of the room, and I could see them watching me and whispering to each other. I wonder what they were thinking. The call must have woken them up. A nurse got up, and let them in to see her. I was jealous.

I chased after her, yelling that she couldn’t drive, but she got into her car, pulled out of the driveway, and swerved down the road. I got into my car, and drove after her. She was swerving dangerously, but luckily the roads were empty.

I followed her for a while, but I didn’t know what I could do. I watched her swerve into the rails and off the highway, smashing into a bridge. The car alarm wailed and I swerved off the road, slamming on the brakes.

I notice a man in all black come into the waiting room, looking rather uncomfortable, but I ignore him. I wonder who he has lost, but I know not to ask. Another family rushes in. There are kids, crying and holding on to their mother. I want to throw up.

I ran towards her car, tears welling up in my eyes, and I couldn’t bear to look. There was blood everywhere. Tears streamed down my face as I called 911.

Day 502 (Short Story 1)

It was Sunday morning, or so she thought, and the rain trickled through the leaves of the trees in the forest like drips from a faucet. In sudden, big drips they would slap on the hood of her raincoat with a plop and then silence until the next drop fell.

She walked through the woods, her rainboots squishing the soggy leaves, carrying the camera in her hands, careful to keep it dry.

She walked for at least an hour, until she came upon her prize, suddenly emerging out of the thick fog. There it stood, surrounded by dark green leaves, struggling under the weight of the rain, the house, at least fifty years old, moldy and brown with its years, rain plonking down on its rusting roof.

She stood, admiring its beauty. The broken glass from the window, sticking like knives into the ground. The metal door, hanging awry, awaiting the next visitor’s entrance. But most importantly, the rocking chair, waiting, tipping ever so slightly in the wind. She almost stopped, to take a picture, but then she remembered her father, waiting for her to return with the box. She took a picture anyway, because that’s what she always did.

She stepped inside, and pulled the hood off her head with her left hand, the camera still resting comfortably in her right. As the hood dripped quietly onto the floor, she breathed in the musty smells of the old home. The house was dark, but the attic was darker.

She remembered him waiting again. She knew he would be cold, wet, and furious when she returned if she didn’t hurry. She turned to the rotten stairs in the corner of the home. She began the treacherous climb, her fingers slipping on the moldy, decomposing railing.

When she reached the attic, she was breathing heavily and she could see her breath in front of her face, a perfect cloud that quickly disappeared. But then she stepped out of the light and she could see her breath no more, only a faint outline of what the room held. She knew what it held. She walked over to the wall, hearing the floor creak under her feet, and picked up the glass box on the floor, and turned around. There was a figure there, one that she didn’t recognize, a figure that had not been there before. She could see the shadow of his broad shoulders, a figure that she didn’t recognize.

He hadn’t been there before.

She felt panic rise in her, and tried to remain as still as possible, so that he wouldn’t be able to see her as easily. She could hear him breathing heavily and fumbling with something in his hand and then she saw him lift something up towards her face and just as she heard the click she saw a glint of light on it she knew it was a gun.

She could remember her father telling her to be careful, that there were bad people in the world who would be out to get them, and she remembered laughing him off and reassuring him that no one would find her.

She dropped the camera and fell backwards, hitting her head on the ground at the same time the box shattered into millions of pieces. That was the only sound that could be heard as the man quickly grabbed the camera, walked out of the house, into the rain, and started to run.

A principle to keep

It's hard to realize how many principles we keep. We don't attack others for no reason, we don't eat people, we don't steal, etc. However, in a dystopian, post-apocalyptic world such as the one in The Road, nearly all of these principles disappear instantly. Some of this is understandable, but there should definitely be a few unspoken rules that remain, at least for most people. For me, I think that the principle of integrity should still reign supreme. Though integrity is defined as "the quality of being honest and having strong moral principles; moral uprightness", that's not all it means to have integrity. In my opinion, your morals should remain consistent, like we see with the boy and his father and their refusal to submit to cannibalism. Basically, you shouldn't do anything you wouldn't do before this "event", but this has some exceptions. "Stealing" becomes okay because it doesn't belong to anyone anymore. However, murder is only excused when strictly for self-protection, which is how I felt when the father killed the man who attacked his son. I also think the idea of honesty is really important, and you can see it most clearly in The Road in the father's honesty towards his son, because he tries to explain everything he can. Now, obviously, it would be hard to keep this as a principle. It might even seem dumb, because it is essentially putting you behind others who do not hold the principle. But it is made up for by the fact that to you know you are a good person. If you remain one of the select few "good guys", you have my respect. 

Cristina Cass is awesome

I am thankful for Cristina. I have prepared a list of reasons why.
1. There is no one nicer than Cristina Cass. Literally Cristina is NOT rude. Even if you are rude to her. She has the most positive attitude of anyone I know and is always smiling, despite the situation. 
2. Cristina throws really cool parties. I think I have been to at least 10 Cass parties and I have only known her for two and a half years. They have lots of food and lots of games and lots of people. Plus her family is really nice also so it's always a lot of fun.
3. Cristina likes Nicolas Cage. I'm not sure why but Cristina was there when my obsession began. She'll probably be there when it ends too. Hmm. 
4. Cristina is the best writer. Have you read her pieces for this class? Astounding. I don't know when she got so good but she is REALLY GOOD. 
5. Cristina has this cute little sway when she walks. I don't know how but I seriously can always recognize her when I see her, despite what she's wearing or how much of her I can see. She also has a really unique style that I really like about her, and she's not afraid to be different. :)))
6. Cristina can do everything- dance, draw, write, sing, anything. 
7. She still works as a Missionary at the Church of Nicolas Cage on Facebook.. (I am priest) but I suppose this could file under #3...

Those are just a few reasons why I am thankful for Cristina. She's an all around great person to be around, so you should be too. 

I Celebrate Myself

I can't say that I celebrate myself, because I don't think I do. Nowadays, when we think about celebrating, we think about parties, fun. No, I don't throw parties for myself... or anything close to that. Maybe it's about being thankful. Sure, I'm  thankful for my life and everything I have, but I don't celebrate that. I'm not even sure I would know how. 

However, maybe the transcendentalists would see otherwise. They likely had a different view on celebrating yourself. For example, I often take time to myself because I get overwhelmed when I'm always around people. Now, I'm NOT saying I would go desert myself in Alaska to take some alone time, but I'll go read alone in my room or something. Sometimes I'll go for a walk by myself. Maybe the transcendentalists would see this as me celebrating myself, because I'm being individual. Other than this, however, I can't see many ties between myself and the transcendentalists. I only agree with some of their individualism ideas, but not all, because I would definitely miss society if I followed all of their beliefs. Sort of how Chris McCandless begins to feel.

So, my answer to the question is still no. I celebrate the fact that I'm alive, sure, but not everything I do, and that's what I think celebrating myself should mean. While the transcendentalists might think otherwise, that's what I think. 

Poe

Edgar Allan Poe was a great other who grew from barely anything. We knew his mother died, but what I didn't know was that his mother died shortly after his father abandoned them. He was adopted, but his new family didn't have much either. He couldn't afford to go to a university, so he tried to be a military cadet, but failed.  This is when he started focusing on writing. It was hard for him at first, but he started to make a pretty decent name for himself. (On a side note, when he was 26, he married his 13 year old cousin. Talk about John Proctor and Abigail..) When he published The Raven, it had immediate success, but two years later his "wife" died. (I can't bring myself to call them really a couple.) It was clear from this point onward that Poe was being to deteriorate mentally.
His life also had an affect on his death. No one knows how he really died, as his death certificate has been lost, but it is thought to be many various things like suicide, alcoholism, cholera, and even rabies. 

You don't even have to know that much to see how Poe's life influenced his writing. His life was very hard and quite depressing, and we can see this in the writing through it's Gothic themes and mystery. He even hints at the death he had to put up with, his mother and his wife. The darkness and depth of his writing is likely caused by the tragedy, torment, and loss Poe lived with. Even before reading about Poe, you could imply most of this from the writing. 

What is an American?

Well, this is definitely a frequently asked question. To me, being an American is not about being born in the United States or being a citizen. People don't say that they're an American because they're legally a citizen of the United States. I think it's more about a sense of belonging in the country, that you feel comfortable with the American culture. We have a very multicultural society, so I don't think it's hard to fit right in. On this note, notice how within 24 hours, nearly everyone in the country knows about how Miley Cyrus made a fool of herself at the MTV awards or has downloaded the latest social media app. Americans are very connected with their culture, too. 
It's not just about the culture, though. Americans stand together when the country needs support, like during the Boston Marathon bombing, or 9/11. This kind of terrible event brings the country closer. Americans also stand together though amazing accomplishments, like the first man on the moon. Americans remember these events with pride.
Last but not least, there's the patriot. In order to really be an American, you have to somehow love America, which sometimes can be hard, but has to be true. Americans are one, and you can't be one with something you don't even like. 
I think throughout this post, the points I've touched on all suggest one thing, togetherness. Americans talk together, laugh together, stand together, are together. America is everywhere, so it makes sense. I don't think it's hard to be an American, and it's definitely worth it.