Logannn

Bad Poem

I once made a list
Of all that I wished
And trusted it full to my heart

All my lies and my dreams
And frivolous things
That fools always wish,
So the matter would seem

Upon the lost list
Of all that I wished
Was the hope
That from mind I could part

The mem'ry of you
Of love fragile and new
Locked now so deep
In my heart

I wrote out a list
Of all that I wished
And in time it did fall apart

But fore the dawn came
I whispered your name
And left it
Alongside my heart

The Fall of the Concubine

They were just two attractive white kids, roaming the ghetto for danger and prostitutes. They had no intention of stopping or employing the whores they hunted, for that would hardly be a respectable pastime. They simply sought to find adventure in their beige, suburban lives. Unafflicted by consequence, they traveled through the slums, pointing out beggars and drunkards and the much-desired temptresses, with their platform heels and neon shorts.

And what should they do when they came upon a whore? They would but merely drive away, pointing in the mirror at her misfortune of circumstance. Affluent and promising, they never dreamed of stopping to engage, only to look upon the meek with undeniable superiority.

Perhaps, they proverbially wished to remind themselves of all they had, to bear witness to the poor, the weak, and the desperate in hopes of finding meaning. But alas, their goal was only to get high on prospective danger, as if viewing the lives of the ragged was enough to boost their street credibility, to make them feel alive.

With so many "what ifs" between them and so many nights spent searching the ceiling for the answers to life, they just needed to feel alive.

How funny that death would be the one to do the job.

They were two fools in love, or the modern version of it, unmoved by the plight of the layman, destined to be more than average in every endeavor. They feared authority only because they feared for their status. What would the neighbors say about the children caught on the bad side of town; had they caught infection, or worse, poverty, in the course of their travels? They would be social pariahs, cursed to a life of rejected invitations and snide remarks.

No, they were just there to look, not to touch and not to buy, but to see, to err on the side of danger, but with a solid layer of glass and arrogance to protect them from the beasts that lay inside.

How disgusted they must have felt when fate made the decision that they should have a close encounter of the whore kind.

With a dull thunk and a low moan, she fell. Fearing for his wheels and paint job, the male rushed from the car, bravely instructing his frail counterpart to stay behind and, under no circumstances, call the police. The consequences would be monumental.

With a quivering hand, he removed his lettered jacket and kneeled to check the pulse of his repulsive victim. Had he a compassionate mind, he may have recognized that, despite the difference in skin tone and class, the hooker's heart beat beneath her breast with no disparity to the way which his did beat

Alas, his considerations reached only the end of his nose and the tip of his only tool, and with disgust and effort, he moved the whore to the edge of the road to die.

The female companion, moved to near hysterics, waited loyally inside the vehicle. She sobbed, not for the crime they committed or for her companion's dishonorable acts, but for possibility. Should the whore die, there would be only a dead whore. Her blood would not be on the hands of her true killers, but on the cold sidewalk in an unimportant part of town.

However, should the whore live to see the morning, the pair would live in terror. Should she be intelligent enough, the whore could memorize the license plate number of the car that maimed her. She could go to the police with a description of her almost killers and the lettered jacket now resting on the hood of the car. Their lives would surely end when the whore made her move, and then who would become the royalty of the prom?

She could not allow such a travesty to transpire.

With swift movements, she extricated herself from the vehicle. In seconds, she was standing above the whore, who was quite still and faintly blue upon the pavement.

In the trained movement of a soccer star, she swiftly made a connection between her high heeled boot and the peasant's face. Again and again she kicked, until the pavement was warm with blood and retribution. Only when she her cheeks were red and her boots were stained with cheap makeup and brain matter did she feel lover's eyes upon her back.

She stopped immediately and coolly turned on her heel. Instead of seeking comfort in an embrace or reassurance in a word, she snarled at him. Her eyes were fierce with a lifetime of rage.

"Take me home now," she ordered, avoiding his gaze as she tidied her hair, "and don't look at me that way. The cunt got what she deserved. She made a mess of my shoes."


End.



Disclaimers:
1) This is fiction and not based on true events
2) For the record, I don't make a habit of trolling the ghetto for hookers to look at and/or kill

Nightmare

I know this feeling well
This monster tearing at my throat
Shaking my soul
Relieving me of sanity

I've been here before
Broken memories crack beneath my feet
I am scarred
These enemies defeating me

I know this feeling well
Scaring the shame away
By shaming me
Take away the memories
These wretched, painful things

Writhing on the floor
They lay in wait for me

The Rhetorical Style of Time Magazine Reporter Richard Corliss

Richard Corliss is an expert writer, and he knows it well. With an air of intelligence and near-superiority, he reports for Time Magazine about the goings on of the entertainment universe. His movie reviews stand far from scathing, but just close enough for readers to feel the heat of his criticism. He articulates his opinions subtly through his artful diction, pessimistic tone, dark humor, and other rhetorical strategies. He manages to produce well-rounded reviews by surrounding his negative comments comfortably with blankets of soft compliments and praise. His artful technique and personal writing style make him a revered critic, though not as well known as Roger Epert or others, and one whose opinion counts for more than a quote in the entertainment section.

The very words he uses set the stage for Corliss’ articles. He utilizes uncommon vernacular when describing his subjects, usually films or the people behind them. The vocabulary, paired with his sentence structure and use of alternating short and lengthy sentences, makes his work interesting to read. He counteracts the draining effects of long, information-filled statements with curt, amusing chasers. “That’s $44,475 per screen, making this the highest-ever average for a medium-size release. Paramount Pictures’ clever viral media campaign helped, but credit the movie’s breakout status to old-fashioned word of mouth and newfangled word of thumb. Twitter strikes again.” (“Box-Office Weekend: Couples Fills a Vacuum”)

Throughout most of his articles, Corliss’ language is scholarly; he makes use of such words as “indefatigable” (“Can The Beatles: Rock Band Save the Music Business?) and “malfeasance.” (“The Entertainer”) However, he offsets his sometimes overpowering expressions with jargon, referring to “gorenography” when speaking of horror movies in “Box Office Bloodbath: Paranormal Slaughters Saw VI,” a term that only those deeply interested in the concept would understand. His diction and syntax contribute greatly to the overall tone of his articles, making them informational with a cunningly amusing feel.

It is easy to sense the sarcastic, despondent tone of Corliss’ writing. His articles begin, without fail, with a bold, callous statement, usually one of pessimism or discontent, but powerful nonetheless. “There was blood at the wickets of this pre-Halloween, as the corpses of every one of the weekend’s new movies littered the lobbies of North American theaters,” (Box Office Bloodbath: Paranormal Slaughters Saw VI) begins one recent article. That first sentence encompasses the mood of the rest of the article, where Corliss expresses his frustration for the embarrassment that is the current state of the horror genre. Oftentimes, he uses his pen as a sword when undermining the quality of films and the talent of their actors. In “Box-Office Weekend: Couples Fills a Vacuum” he artfully suggests that Couple’s Retreat’s success was based entirely on star power and uses the rest of the article to abuse the film and praise Paranormal Activity. One thing proves certain in Corliss’ writing: In terms of praise or attack, when it rains, it pours. In several recent articles, he has cited Paranormal Activity as a stroke of box-office genius, and has used it in contrast with big-ticket films that have failed to meet his standards for quality entertainment. In short, when Corliss likes something, everyone knows it. In some instances, however, his sarcasm is blunt, unblemished by elaborate wording or fine rationalizations. When speaking again of current horror movie trends, he moans, “Oh, no – a fright season without Jigsaw luridly dismembering nubile teens? Say it ain’t so!” (Box Office Bloodbath: Paranormal Slaughters Saw VI) His cynical tone extends to virtually all of his articles, even those dripping with approbation. He seems incapable of giving a direct compliment, like a man too proud to admit when he is wrong, but he says everything necessary with his tone. While his articles have a reliable edge of ridicule, that edge is softened ever so slightly when Corliss reviews movie he thoroughly enjoyed. Of Ricky Gervais’ The Invention of Lying, Corliss says simply that Gervais is “cute.” (Pants on Fire! The Inspired Invention of Lying) This changes the entire tone of the article, making one picture a writer who appreciates the adorable things in life.

Richard Corliss is a master of his craft. Beneath his concentrated intelligence and satirical humor lies real, pertinent (to the average, media-obsessed American) information presented in an impeccable way. Corliss writes for the layman, but with a distinct style that leaves the layman with no doubt that Corliss is much more intelligent than he. He employs the use of intense diction to make his readers understand his purpose and interesting sentence structure to reinforce it. His tone is consistently unforgiving. He is a true critic, analyzing and condemning films and pop culture phenomena in a way that makes the reader trust his every word. It is this kind of twisted, intriguing, self-serving and selfless style that makes Richard Corliss a brilliant writer and a voice to be heard.

Whatever this is.

Was it a sign? Surely it could not be a coincidence that such a symbol of their dedicated friendship and love should fall apart the very day she learned that the foundation she had laid so much trust and truth upon proved to have faults so subtle and so potentially devastating. A sign it most certainly was, and most certainly it was a sign that she should abandon the crumbling home where she and he dwelled in a masquerade of bliss. But what kind of impossible is it to retreat from everything she was slowly learning she needed so desperately? A sign it must be, and it was a sign that must be ignored for fear of all of heaven falling down and leaving her again in darkness, without a reason to hold out a hand with hope that he may take it and lead her again to the light.

1..2..3.. Go.

Here's the deal: You're going to grow your hair long and sing about all the things you've missed out on. I'm going to forget how to love myself and as a result, everyone else. I'm going to drink myself into oblivion and take the road more traveled, the road to destruction. I'll be halfway gone before I even know what's hit me.

We will lock eyes in a crowded club and even in my drunken stupor, I'll know that you're going to be the one to save me. You'll sing my name and make me remember that the beautiful things in life don't reside at the bottom of a bottle. I'll finally decide to let love have me, just as your band hits it big. My dreams of happily ever after will be washed away in a heartbeat, and I'll turn to my most reliable "friend" to drown my sorrows. You will find me too far gone, and tell me that it was never supposed to go this way. You have a ring in your pocket and I was going to come with you, silly. It was all going to be okay. But hospital rooms are bad places for proposals and happily ever after seems very far away and that warm, nice light is just so close.

Three minutes of flat lines and goodbyes are three minutes of perfect clarity, and you are the only thing I ever wanted. Your tears are my new life and my eyelids flutter open, I am desperate to see you face. And everything is okay, except everything that isn't. But that doesn't matter now, because all you have to do is kiss me now, and everything will go away.

Does this sound as good to you as it does to me? 'Cause it will only work if you believe.

Epic Douchebag Slamming [Facebook Win]

• Ryan Clark's best friend and girlfriend are gossiping about me! :O

• You and Kieran Evans like this.

• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: hope tht ends well! ;) jk!
• Helen Rose: xDD
• Nick Strange: wow people could really care less
• Helen Rose: Nick, you're a douche. Go suck a dick and stop being so uptight plz. xD
• Ryan Clark: That's why this status wasn't directed towards those people... Love you, Nick.
• Nick Strange: well its dumb no one fucking cares if some one gossips about you and helen really? honey wat crawled up your ass and died ha
• Ryan Clark: Haha! I didn't understand your last sentence, but seriously. Don't worry about it. You don't have to care about the statuses nobody cares about.
• Helen Rose: I care!!! I care!!! I care!!! I care!!! I care!!! I care!!! I care!!! I care!!! I care!!! I care!!! I care!!! I care!!! You're just very grumpy and negative all the time. It's not nice. If you didn't care about his status, why did you bother to comment on it? I'm starting to thing you're a bit of a drama queen...
• Nick Strange: ha ok sorry to upset you kids
• Ryan Clark: Let's behave. :)
• Helen Rose: But daaaaad!!!!! *pouty face* : p
• Nick Strange: awww sorry doll did hurt ur feelings callin you a kid damnn i just cant do n e thing right to night
• Nick Strange: o and by the way its "started"
• Ryan Clark: Ughhhh. Let's all stop talking.
• Helen Rose: *sings*
• Why can't weeeeeeeee be friends? Why can't weeeeeeee be friends?? =[[ : p
• Kyle Travis DeHart: Hey gingers, be quiet. Except Ryan.
• Nick Strange: ok ginger is the dumbest thing ever ok also i hope your not talking about me ha to damn fine to be one
• Helen Rose: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dYpnd_9TFs
• Ryan Clark: Haha, ginger should be a racial epithet.
• Kyle Travis DeHart: Yes I meant you, you ginger. You cant be "damn fine" if your skin is whiter than the driven snow.
• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: boy, i have red hair... my nickname is ginger, but i still didnt take that as a slam... anyways! hope all goes well ryan!
• Ryan Clark: Haha, I love you Kyle.
• Nick Strange: ahh well im sorry to say homie but i have gotten more ass in 10 minutes than you probally will in the next ten years...kid please
• Scott Davenport: 1st WTF is driven snow? 2nd Nick, you might be damn fine to men, but girls don't like fags.
• Kyle Travis DeHart: Man ass doesn't count, and unless you prematurely ejaculate, I really doubt that's possible. Though I do think you probably are a premie.
• Helen Rose: Scott, ftw.
• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: maybe that's because i dont like to be a skank...
• Ryan Clark: This status gets better and better! Scott, have I ever told you how awesome you are? : D
• Helen Rose: FIGHT!!!
• Nick Strange: really this is coming from some fatass weardo? who has probally still a little virgin...considering you have hit puberty yet
• Scott Davenport: No, Ryan, you have not.
• Helen Rose: You bitch about his unfortunate virginity, but I must ask, who the FUCK would sleep with you, Nick?
• Ryan Clark: Well, now I have, Scott!
• Helen Rose: Oh, and Megan Turner doesn't count. : p
• Nick Strange: haha baby just cause you havent got the chance dont mean you need to be angry, o and to answer your question a few women who are alot hotter than you
• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: umm... hit puberty a few years ago... im 19... and, as for the weirdo, im in band, what do you expect, plus, i believe in having a little fun in my life and not being a stuck-up butt like you are... heavens to betsy! get a life!
• Helen Rose: Hookers don't count, either...
• Nick Strange: wasent talking to you groose red head chick
• Kyle Travis DeHart: Lolz I haven't hit puberty? Ask anybody who's met me, I can grow a beard in less than a week, my voice is deeper than the depth that your balls have yet to sink, and I may be fat, but at least I'm not some little ginger who resorts to left hand shame every night before getting tucked into bed by mommy. /thread.
• Scott Davenport: HEY NICK I fucking love how you're picking on him because you're so fucking insecure about your own damn problems. GTFO facebook you little fag.
• Nick Strange: wow umm i have no insecurities ok sorry bro to perfect for that yall just jealous
• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: what's groose?
• Scott Davenport: All insecure people say that shit.
• Helen Rose: *gets popcorn*
• Good show. Like I was telling Kyle, like 4chan, but with real people. xD
• Ryan Clark: Oh yeah, they have ever reason be jealous of a ginger kid that can't form a proper sentence. But to be fair, we should all thank you for giving us something to do on this boring Monday night.
• Scott Davenport: It's technically Teusday morning now Ryan...
• Helen Rose: Spell much, Scottie, me love?
• Nick Strange: ahh well not me homie sorry bro im damn fine get invited to alot of parties and ive punked more pussy than astian kutcher
• Ryan Clark: Ahhh, touche, my friend.
• Ryan Clark: So you've tricked a lot of girls into sleeping with you? I doubt you're clever enough for that.
• Helen Rose: Nick, you're laughable. Kill yourself, plz.
• Helen Rose: Not necessarily, Ry. Any caveman can knock a girl out with a club.
• Scott Davenport: Who cares? Wow you go to parties and have sex! Gg on getting herpies before high school ends and being an alcoholic for the rest of your life.
• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: im pretty sure he doesnt want to be your 'homie' as for the whole punked... that's just gross!!! you're going to die at an early age of a terrible disease....
• Nick Strange: noo no no you obsily havent heard the phrase bro and sorry helen to many girls be heart broken thanks for plain tho baby
• Kyle Travis DeHart: It's ashton you dumb fucking albino. Seriously, if you want to attempt to argue with the big boys, study up on engrish instead of slapping the ham.
• Nick Strange: atleast i had more fun than you bible thumpin faggots
• Ryan Clark: Nick, pleeeeeeease start using complete sentences. No one can understand your ginger-squawk.
• Helen Rose: You mean too many people would be saved from your reprehensible spelling? However will we survive...
• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: i like the Bible! at least it speaks truth...
• Nick Strange: engrish??? and dude sorry i got people for that
• Kyle Travis DeHart: I R NICK STRANGE I R ALBINO I LIKE ASTAIN CUTCHERS BUTTHOLE I R THINK LOLWAT R ENGLRISH KTHXBAI
• Scott Davenport: What's the bible?
• Ryan Clark: Let's not get into a religious discussion. Pleeeeease, dear God.
• Nick Strange: no it doesent yyou funcking insolent fatass haha you kids and blindly following your dumbass religion
• Kyle Travis DeHart: ....did you just call me insolent?
• Helen Rose: OMGZ I WANT YER NASTI GINGER BABBIES CUZ U SPELL SO GUD N I WANT YER FAGGOT PENCIL DICK INSIDE ME NAO PLZZZZ. Go die, please.
• Scott Davenport: LAWL I R NICK I R GET MAN ASS BUT CLAIM THAT IT R WOMAN ASS TO HELP MY OWN INSECURITIES BLAH BLAH FUCKING BLAH LETS GO IN CIRCLES MORE WOO
• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: apparently, you've never heard the song "Amazing Grace"
• Ryan Clark: I'm just glad the people speaking against Nick have both intelligence and conviction. Too bad Nick has neither. :(
• Helen Rose: Ryan, ftw.
• Rhiannon McHugh: Please guys. Let's stop the internet violence. Sure Nick is being a douche bag troll, but let's remember he's most likely a malnourished redheaded step child just looking for some form of attention. poor thing. D:
• Helen Rose: Rhiannon, ftw.
• Kyle Travis DeHart: NICK IS INSOLENNNNTTTTTTTTT.
• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: i really hate the redhead jokes...
• Ryan Clark: Kyle, ftw.
• Helen Rose: Obama, ftw.
• Ryan Clark: Haha, it's ok Dani! We can handle red head jokes. :D
• Talon Bray: Well this is entertaining...hmm...I'm with the majority...highschool parties where pussy is to be had by a Ginger like yourself is either 1) to drunk to stand or 2) is passed out or 3) ugly or has a disease that as soon as you stick it in you immediately think "there is something itchy in my near future". But whatever man, go for it, being a necro ... Read Moreisn't too bad, or getting gonasyphaherpelies. <= yeah try to say that one. Anyway thanks for the entertainment Ryan and Helen and Kyle and Scott and Necro Ginger!
• Scott Davenport: Wtf is insolent?
• Lindsay Wick: Uhm. I don't think I like this Nick kid. He's not being very kind. I miss you, Ryan!
• Ryan Clark: Talon, ftw!
• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: ha ha ha... okay... nick hasnt spoken in a while
• Helen Rose: Scottie, insolent is a small ginger man with a pencil dick and mommy issues. He often goes by "Nick" but sometimes by "douchemonkey" and on special occasions, "king douche".
• Scott Davenport: Maybe he died. See Helen, God does exist.
• Helen Rose: Pics or it didn't happen.
• Ryan Clark: Haha! It's a miracle. I think we're all undergoing a religious experience.
• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: i really shouldnt laugh at that, scott, but i will anyways! ha ha ha!
• Kyle Travis DeHart: He probably burst into tears at all the insults, and started using his tears as lube for his quality time with Palmela Handerson.
• Helen Rose: I met her at a party once.. Lovely girl.
• Scott Davenport: No, Palmela Handerson's a man. That's what he goes for, remember?
• Talon Bray: May I ask a retarded question? What is ftw? I am curious. All you hip kids sing words I don't understand.
• Helen Rose: For the win. xD
• Scott Davenport: Ftw is like wtf backwards. Wtf=what the fuck, ftw=fuck the what?
• Talon Bray: I feel dumb now...oh well I could spell like douchemonkey or Nick...which is it again? I forgot?
• Ryan Clark: Talon, I don't see how you could feel dumb after hearing our friend the douchemonkey.
• Kyle Travis DeHart: That cocksuckler hasn't said anything lately : (
• Helen Rose: *sadface*
• Scott Davenport: Way to steal my insult, Kyle. This is why we can't have nice things.
• Danielle Kaye Carbonneau: i didnt know what it meant either... so no worres talon...
• Helen Rose: After this glorious voyage together, I feel very close to all of you. Thanks for the experience. ;]
• Kyle Travis DeHart: We need to all reenact this with microphones, and post it on the youtubes
• Helen Rose: That can be arranged

Chapter 1

They had to escape. Anywhere. Everywhere. They just had to get away.

The miles stretched behind them endlessly. They left no trails and no explanations. They vanished.

He didn't speak when he came to her. He said words, but they conveyed no meaning. He mumbled incoherent phrases and half-thoughts, urging her along. She looked at him incredulously, taking in the panic behind his emerald eyes. She saw the longing and the need etched into his features, the sense of danger radiating from his skin. But she was not afraid. She nodded and took his hand, leading him away from the messes they had made.

The sun hid behind the clouds. The day was hot and humid. The landscape around them was constantly changing, morphing into a new city, a new state, a new reality. These were all things that she would have mentioned on any other day, under any other circumstances. She didn't look at him and he didn't try to gain her attention.

She rolled down her window and extended her arm. When she was younger, she had always cupped her hand, a futile attempt to capture the wind, to hold on to the moment longer than she should. She wondered when things like that had stopped being worth her time, when she had grown so serious about life, too serious to try to slow down time, if only for that minute. Now, she would give anything to hold on, to stop the constant, chaotic dance that was going on around her, just long enough to let her begin to understand.

“Evan,” she said slowly, wrapping her mouth around the word and her mind about everything it meant to her, “we’re going to have to stop at some point.” She eyed him carefully and waited, hoping for any kind of response. She got nothing, his body language only suggested indifference. “And when we do, we’ll have to talk.”

His features were cold. He gave a terse nod of affirmation.

“But not now.” His voice was thin and did poorly to reflect the rigid facade he was trying to maintain.

“Not now,” she agreed, “but soon.”

This incited no response save the tightening of his fingers on the steering wheel and the sudden feeling that the greatest distance was not behind them, but between.

more random stuff/maybe I should stop thinking

Tell me, what was the first time you were taken to worship? What was the first time you were told to believe, and you blindly followed? What was the first time you questioned, or have you ever? You don't know anything, yet you believe everything that you are told. We have no true knowledge. We know so little about life, and absolutely nothing about what comes after. We can pretend and we can hope and you can pray, but in the end, there is only darkness and uncertainty staring us in the face, and it scares us enough for us to have faith in anything that soothes our troubled minds, be that a god or a prophet or a bottle of whiskey.

When will people learn that the purpose of life is to live - to live for yourself and make yourself happy. Because in the end, nothing else matters. In a thousand years no one will remember you, you have to accept that and strive to please only yourself to be truly free.