Final Moments

He could smell Oklahoma again -- the waft of warm buttery pancakes for breakfast, mama's flowery scent as she moved about the kitchen in a whirlwind of mania, freshly-picked daisies in a vase at the table, and the old, musky smell of his wooden porch. He could even hear grasshoppers bzzzing in the grass, rubbing their legs together with heated vigour.

Then, with an uncomfortable tug of reality, he was whisked back to present time. The deep, throaty voice of the pastor who stood next to him as he read passages from the bible strewn across his hands resonated in the empty warehouse. He could hear the quiver in each syllable he pronounced, sensing the underlying hatred the man must've harboured for the criminal he was reading his sermon to.

His own hands began to tremble, as if the beat of his heart had duplicated itself in his sweating palms. The air around him suddenly began to thin, and his lungs struggled frantically to heave more into his system. He breathed in and out with exaggerated breaths, wondering wildly if he was having a heart attack. Images blurred in front of his eyes, he could no longer focus on anything else but his aching lungs.

Absent-mindedly, not noticing the man's increasingly-loud breaths, the executioner placed the black cloth bag over his head.

The pervading stench of hopelessness flooded his nostrils. He felt the black bag's string tightening around his neck -- a prelude to the opening act. To no avail, he attempted to resume regular inhalations and exhalations, when finally he saw his doomed end clearer than he had ever expected. His wondrous epiphany, came to him in his final moments: his life was ending. He was no longer going to wake up the next morning in a 4x4 cell, feeding on murky water and stale bread. He would never see his friends again, nor his estranged family. He would never get married, have children, find a woman who would make his coffee for him in the morning, and read him parts from the daily newspaper. This was his inconsolable end.

And as the straining floorboards fell away beneath him, the crrack! of human bone and tissue reverberated from wall to wall in the dejected gloom. The noose seized his Adam's apple with a death clutch, finally robbing him of any air.

A creak of the rope.
A rustling of clothes.
A soulless twitch.
And he was gone.

A Bridget Jones' imitation

123 lbs, 2 oz., caffeine units 1, alcohol units 0.5 (one of those silly-excuse-of-a-drink bottle from No Frills), calories 1245 (v.good)

8.30 pm. V. proud of myself, have mastered the art of squatting over public loos after 16 years.

8.45 pm. Have decided homework is the bane of my existence.

9. pm. Have math test tomorrow, better study.

10.45 pm. Oh bloody hell. Still have not opened notes. Maybe will leave it for tomorrow morning.

12.10 am. Cannot get to sleep. Must use loo. Squatting technique v. handy. Did not know til yesterday that there are millions of bacteria on own toilet. V. gross.

12.15 am. Decided am going to sound-proof my room one day to block out dreadful parents' voices. Do not understand concept of whispering, it seems.

1.15 am. Counting the spiky things on my ceiling.

1.25 am. Decided there are about 502 of them.

1.30 am. Oh for Pete's Sake! Was just drifting off to Neverland when some moronic neighbour let out a non-human sound.

2.30 am. Should take some Valium.

2.35 am. Mmmm, drugs.

Descriptive Writing

The man's bright, shining hair flashed golden for a mere second under the rays of the sun. He beckoned forwards with a come-hither smile that spoke multitudinously more than words could ever have done.

A small, knowing grin spread across her lips, barely able to suppress her ever-surmounting gaiety. A beautiful picnic site with a marvellous view, was all he had said about where they were headed off to.

From behind the lush, weeping willows a gallant, majestic animal emerged. Trotting, steadily, whipping its mane about in a frighteningly-accurate rendition of Repunzel.

The man lay a gentle hand on the animal's neck, stroking him affectionately, and then swept himself up onto its back with the grace of a swan. She peered up at them -- man and beast. He had never looked more in his element than now, atop his steed amidst all the vast green surrounding them.

Cat Fight

Melanie, a shopping-loving model, has just entered her favourite store, Holt Renfrew. While she is in one of the most expensive clothing sections, she encounters another girl. Her name is Gisele, a stay-at-home mom who occasionally likes to splurge.

"Oh Jacques, zee gala is going to be très grande! Oh qu’est que je vais porter? It must be perfect, za top fashion editors from all over ze world will be zere, ah mon dieu!" Melanie scrunched her face in frustration.

Gisele walked up next to Melanie obliviously, starting to brush through the clothing hangers.

Melanie scrutinized her with one look, and threw her a dirty face.

"Hey Jacques, cette bonhomme fille just walked into zee section I’m in. Pourquoi les bonhommes filles insist on shopping in my section? Don’t they know that les vetements du merde they seek, aren’t in zis store! Non! Jacques, no! Je n’aime pas these fashion wannabees. They have no fashion sense and shopping with them makes me look bad!" Melanie stamped a foot down angrily, shouting loudly into her phone.

”Um, is there a problem because it seems that you’re talking about me. Am I offending you?" Gisele finally looked up at the girl standing a few feet away from her.

Melanie looked at her straight in the face, as if daring her to hold the gaze.
"You are zee problem! you girls who shame us. We French people are what I like to call fashionista, et bonhomme fille, you are not fashionista. So out of my way, let me continue my work." She crossed her arms defensively, but turned back to her browsing.

Gisele stood her ground.
”Yeah you're right, I’m no fashionista, but I am a human being. I vote, I listen to the news everyday, I donate money to charity, when there’s an argument I pick a side... let me guess, you’re neutral when it comes to everything but fashion?" She imitated Melanie's stance, leaning on one foot and glaring at her with hard eyes.

Livid with anger now, "Leesten tramp, you could never doo what I doo, they would throw garbage at you, and you’re married are you? Does he work at zee McDonalds or zee Burger King? Haha, c’est domage!"
She snickered at her last line, for effect.

"Ok let’s get one thing straight miss fashionista; do not bring my husband into this. He is a hard-working man who takes care of his family. Secondly, quand je vois vous, je vois un piece du merde, you dress kind of emo, you’re fashion sense sucks and quite frankly, ton français, c’est ne pas bon n’est-ce pas?"

On the Other Side of Town

The sun is starting to set beneath the clouds spattered across the sky. The wind is blowing fiercely. Condensation suspended in the air threatens to fall as the atmosphere grows dismal by the clock-ticking second.

He wraps himself tightly in his shoddy blanket, trying desperately to fight off the chill creeping up from his toes. He can feel its grip on him--its clenched jaw with the strength of a thousand Trojan men. Ripped bits of newspaper are stuffed in between his armpits, his crotch, his hands. It helps to keep the heat in and the cold out. Sometimes. A flash of lightning overhead temporarily brightens his streaked face, covered with days-old grime and sweat.

A clinking sound. Someone has dropped a few coins into his paper cup. He peers over the top of his hands to check out his day's worth. It's not much, but perhaps if he skips out over some food tonight, he'll be able to have a decent meal tomorrow.

Rumble Rumble. The tail-end of a storm must be sweeping in from the Western hemisphere, he thinks. A snippet of conversation about a hurricane that struck not far from the area was all the talk of the streets, and even people like him are able to keep up.

He suddenly yelps as the first droplet hits him hard in between his eyes. Furiously diving under the covers, he pulls until not a single hair is in the path of the offending weather to come.

The sound of water beating against crumbling, old rain gutters is heard before anything more is felt. A gentle tap has turned to a heavy gush in a matter of seconds, and soon, the wet is soaking through.

In it goes, slipping through the decrepit fabric with ease, seeping through the singlefold newspaper, flushing against his skin, increasing in malevolence.

His skin is beaten till rawness, as the whip of a belt comes down hard upon a child that has done wrong. Tears of pain and internal agony stream down his face, intermingling with the rainwater. The sweet, salty taste on the edges of his tongue is the last thing he feels as the consciousness is knocked out of his system.

Note: Not a "Writer's Craft" assignment -- just a short thingymadoo.

An (re)ev(de)olution in language

Bush sucks. So what if I'm gay? And I'd like to unite my life with another man's? Is that really the business of anybody else's?? I'm gettin' so tired of hearing the "Hey man, you gettin' Brokeback?" jokes that hit me every two minutes that I'm walkin down the streets of downtown. For the record, I loved the movie. But anyway, when them funny people throw these words at me and my partner, I just LMAO at them. Laughter is the best medicine anyway, ain't it?

I don't care about womanly curves, dude, men are awesome. I notice a lot of things about 'em right away, but seriously, if he's got facial hair, he's my man! My favourite design has gotta be the pudding ring. I had my partner shave his into that design, and boy did he get some action that night! No, but really, the most ballin' combination would be if he had dark hair, too! You put dark facial hair against a light complexion, and you got a meatball in the rice! It's just like crack to me!

Sentences

Mi buddies n' I went oot ter chug a few beers the other ev'ning. We 'ooted and 'ollered fer a good cup'la hours 'fore I wos challenged to chop the sex-ay barmaid.

Wake Me Up When September Ends

The first thing I'm going to do on this very strange blogging thingamajig is suggest y'all read "Moby Dick" by Herman Melville. Best classic there is. And maybe it's kind of obvious that I love it.. but human beings love the obvious.

Anyway. Moving on,
I'm gonna try to make reading this as interesting as possible. I mean if you're not already intrigued by my pure awesomeness that emanates from every post (teehee), then just look at the pretty pictures.

Anyhoo, I shall seee you soon journal. I actually already have a livejournal, so I shouldn't post in this one too much or else it'll get jealous.. but more writing's always more fun right??
(SUCK-UP!)
Heh. Toodles.