The day after tomorrow, this will all be over. End of the world according to the Mayan predictions. It didn't seem worth sending out any Christmas cards this year and I also avoided presents. Saved all the money and had a holiday of a lifetime instead. I'm back home doing a countdown until the fateful moment. All my life I had been super organised, financially, personally, the household run like clockwork.
This year I gave it all up. Seemed pointless. Clutter and dust fill every room. Expenses unwritten, bills unpaid, I mean why bother if EVERYONE is going to die....
Woof woof. Woof woof woof woof woof. Woof. Bark woof. Woof. Woof woof woof. Bark bark woof bark. Woof.
In a world torn asunder,
I'm simply here to pillage and plunder.
I sail the blue and ride the high seas,
And move along on an ocean breeze.
Salt may move through my veins,
As women try to tie me down to these shipping lanes.
But my heart is meant to go far,
And my mouth is meant to find the next bar.
For in a world of insanity,
Little does the man good who is consumed with vanity.
So, I'll toil, and boil, and make myself trouble,
As I sit here on the edge of this bubble.
I'll watch...
We're not familiar with the same weather or same temperatures. I don't know the blazing heat of the desert. You've never felt the deep wet cold of the Atlantic states. And then there's the sun and the moon, and the underside of the asteroid grazing our comfort zone.
We could sing country songs in the backyard tonight. It'll be cold, but dry, and Venus is near the moon.
We'll begin at dusk. My dusk, your dusk, and the dusk of deserts, dusk of satellites. Hot dusk, chilling dusk.
Dusk, dusk.
If I were a scientist I would invent a drug, which could bring me back to all of the feelings I was able to experience in my childhood days. These days, when my imagination was so much more powerful than reality. I miss the ability of completely dreaming away in an innocent way. Childhood is a friend to me, who passed away long ago, but left me with so many colorful memories, that I will never be able to forget about it or accept the fact that childhood's something irretrievable.. Never.
I guess, these thought is one of these last...
Miss or Diss
This game is easy. And it all started at lunch yesterday. We were sitting down in the restricted area. My friend brought up a game.
"Let's play, 'Miss or Diss" She called out.
I was very confused. Miss or Diss? What the heck is this game? My friend must have read my mind, "Clara, It's a game where you pick a person from our school or any character you like and you say it to another person in our group if you want to Diss him/her or you want to Miss -which stands for Marriage, I, sure,...
Back in 1943
Everywhere was tyranny
It seems the perfect time to me
To test my backwards time machine
If Hitler dies, what happens then?
To future women, future men?
Perhaps we've come to pick the locks
To history's temp'ral paradox
It is muddy. I went for a walk and there was mud everywhere. Even in the woods, which are supposed to be haunted, But I dont care. I am suicidal so if I get killed by a ghost or a goblin, it's no skin off my back.
I entered the forest and I got mud all over my slippers. Up ahead there was an animated scarecrow holding a scythe. "Hello," I said. The scarecrow cut off both my legs. Blood flew everywhere. But then my stumps started to itch and throb and vibrate. From them grew pogo sticks. My legs...
Dearest Sarah,
I hope that all is well with our family. Please send my love to little Joey and his sister Louise. By my calculations, the temperature back home should have dropped significantly due to our efforts; there may even be snow. They tell me that I'll be allowed shore leave in a month, perhaps two; I look forward to seeing you then.
The light plays tricks on one's mind; we cannot look at it, only observe it through our computers, making it all essentially invisible. It strikes me as ominous that our enemy is so powerful that it is...
The dystopia is a genre of fiction designed to teach a lesson about society by imaging a future society warped in some terrible way. The interesting thing about dystopian novels is their reliance on a single, antagonistic character to provide a terrible monologue of exposition to the horrified protagonist, explaining just how and why society went bad, and why the system must persist.
George Orwell's 1984 has O'brien, Aldous Huxley's Brave New World has Mustafa Mond, and Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 has Captain Beatty, the remarkably well-read "fireman" who has turned his back on all that literature had to offer...