Gravity

Gravity keeps us grounded.

Which sometimes means it’s hard to fly.

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Purple Dolphin (TW (Trigger Warning, maybe)

Diary Entry #79

 

Dear everybody,

 

My name is Nobody. My name is the Weirdo.

My name is what people call me and because of them, I’m now gone.

 

It started with the simple things, the usual playground insults. ‘Ugly’, ‘Nerd’ and the rest but it escalated so far beyond that. ‘Ugly’ and ‘Nerd’ is what people call me when they have nothing better to say. When they have something to say they call me ‘Loser’, ‘Pitiful’, ‘Cringey’, ‘Desperate’. And to be honest some of them are just the ones they use to get started.

 

To some, these words, these names, help them thrive. Give them something to prove. It didn’t work that way to me. These names just added more weight to my already hunched back and eventually, my back broke.

 

Shattered into a million microscopic pieces.

 

You feel yourself break and crack into a million pieces. You scream and you scream and you scream until your voice goes hoarse and you realise that nobody’s going to help you or tell you that everything’s going to be OK. I found my tears when I realised that. Those tears never stopped streaming down my face and eventually when I looked into the mirror I never saw myself clearly. Those tears found me in the darkness, when they knew that I had no light to guide me.

 

It was so painful. So I did what I could and I ended my pain once and for all.

 

“Once the judge has called the court to session, the one and only eyewitness was called to the stand. She was fidgeting with the cuffs of her suit as she sat down with the grace of a confident pianist. Her eyes flitted across the room like an unsure butterfly.

 

“Do you swear to tell the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you god?” said the clerk with an air of boredom around him, as if he’d done this a million times.

 

He probably has.

 

“I do,” said the eyewitness. She tried very hard to sound confident but the nervous jitter tinged the end of her line.

 

One of the lawyers, the prosecutor, stood from his desk and went up to the stand. He walked slowly and with purpose, seemingly asserting his legal prowess upon everyone in the room.

 

“Mrs. Amari, you entered the room of you daughter, Ms. Evyln Amari, at 11 PM. She was lying down on her bed with a single gunshot wound to the head. Is that correct?” he asked smoothly, a hint of empathy in his voice.

 

“Yes, that is correct,” replied Mrs. Amari. Her voice had a slight tremble, but the prosecutor dissmissed that and continued asking her questions.

 

“Mrs. Amari, why did you enter her room?” he asked.

 

“I heard some ruffling and mumbling upstairs, and was suspicious. I thought she was still seeing that boy of hers, so I quitely went upstairs, so that she wouldn’t hear me. Then I heard the gunshot and I began running. I banged her bedroom door open and I saw her. I saw my poor baby with blood bleeding out around her! AND THEN I SAW HIM!” screamed Mrs. Amari, tears streaming down her face, eyes black with fury. She had stood up and was making her way towards the young man who was accused of the murder of her child, “You killed my baby!” she scremed again.

 

The judge called the court to order, while the now very interested clerk escorted Mrs. Amari back to her seat.

 

Other witnesses, a few cops and, two forensic scientist were called up and they all confirmed Mrs. Amari recount of the night.

 

The judge ended the session in court and told everyone that court will resume the next morning at nine AM.

 

The air of the next morning was less tense than the morning before. The jury had their minds half made up already. The accused was called up to the stand. A bead of sweat rolled down his face and he wiped his hands before taking the oath. The clerk led him through the oath, decidedly more interested with the trial compared to yesterday.

 

The accused sat down once he had said “I do,” and the prosecuter was called to question the accused.

 

“Your name is Jack Robinson, correct?” the prosecuter asked.

 

“Yes,” said Mr. Robinson, still visibly nervous.

 

“On the night of 20th of September, 11 PM, you shot a .45 Glock Automatic Pistol into the back of Ms. Evelyn’s head, correct?” the prosecuter asked.

 

A slight nod came from Mr. Robinson.

 

“Once again Mr. Robinson, on the night of 20th of September, 11 PM, you shot a .45 Glock Automatic Pistol into the back of Ms. Evelyn’s head, is this or is this not correct?!” the prosecuter had a slight hint of frustation, though it was not discernable whether or not it was fake or genuine, in his voice.

 

“YES! I killed her!” yelled Mr. Robinson. “I KILLED HER! I SHOT A BULLET FROM MY FATHER’S GUN INTO THE ONLY PERSON THAT HAS EVER CARED ABOUT ME’S HEAD!”

 

Everything was decided. At this point the prosecuter was satisfied and sat back down. A person from the jury had raised his hand to signal that the jury were ready to begin discussing their verdict.

 

As the judge was about to nod a cop ran into the room with a laptop in hand.”

 

Diary Entry #85

 

JR was ready. He’s ready to go to jail to get away from his abusive family. I’m ready to die and get away from everything. He’s gotten his hands on a weapon. I felt a bit guilty. The guy genuinely believed that I loved him and I think he has started to truly love me. He’s told me everything and is willing to do anything for me to make me happy.

 

Even if it means killing me.

 

“Once the court had settled down the judge called the cop up to give the laptop (specifically a second-hand looking ACER) as evidence. The police didn’t find the laptop in their initial sweep of Ms. Amari’s room. They had only found it when they got a warrant to sweep Mr. Robinson’s room. After questioning, the homicide detectives found that Ms. Amari had given it to Mr. Robinson a few days prior to her death. They got into the laptop and found that this was a laptop Ms. Amari had bought for herself. The police found a series of emails sent between the victim and a Russian server referred to as Purple Dolphin. These emails detailed instructions from Purple Dolphin on self-destructing things and eventually how to plan her own murder. The emails sent from Ms. Amari’s account detailed her completion of such “tasks”.

 

It was sick.

 

When the defendant went up to Mr. Robinson and asked him if he knew what Ms. Amari was doing to herself. He said ‘yes’, but he never knew that the harm was systematic in any way. And it was evident he was telling truth because you could see his eyes clouded with a tears and a hint of anger.

 

The jury decided to go into their room for deliberation. The judge had called this session in court to an end and sent the jury to their deliberation room. The bayliff escorted Mr. Robinson out of court.

 

The jury have not left that room in a few hours but we will come back to you when they are done.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once I had finished my newscast I went home and took a shower. I put on my pajamas and logged onto my private laptop. I opened my email inbox and started writing my next update to Purple Dolphin.

The Fair: Chapter 1

 A/N: Hey guys! This is a story I’ve been working on for the last few months. My friend has been helping me out and I’m going to start releasing the chapters on here. I’m legit so excited to post this though!

The place was completely abandoned. The lights were flickering. Except for the occasional movement on the ferris wheel, everything was dead still.

 

I sat on one of the horses on the carousel and looked around. The sun was setting, making the sky change from the bright blues of the day, to the darker hues of the night. The sky was a portrait of oranges, reds, and blacks, all melting into each other like a wet canvas. The ferris wheel was covered in paint that had started to fade and chip long ago, the fence surrounding it had almost given up to the rust. There was a photobooth a few metres away from where I was sitting, looking like any stereotypical photo booth would. Quite close by to it was a series of large tents entitled the ‘Fun House’, the ‘Haunted House’, ‘Freak Show’ and the ‘Hall of Mirrors’.

 

I had my sketchbook on my lap. My pencil was poised on the paper, but I couldn’t draw anything. I tried every once and awhile, but the colours and the scene just didn’t translate well onto paper.

 

A few moments passed and I was struck by an idea. I hopped off the plastic horse and climbed on top of it. I grabbed the carousel pole to support me as I lifted myself onto the red roof of the attraction. It was big enough and strong enough to support my body. It was a bit smaller than I had hoped, and my legs dangled off the edge as I lied on my back. I kicked my shoes off for comfort and I began to sketch the sky.

 

I kept sketching until the dark blues of the afternoon turned into a twinkling glitter of stars on a background of pitch black. I realised then that I should probably be heading home so I climbed back down to the carousels horses and put my shoes back on. I tucked my sketchbook under my arm and my pencil in the back pocket of my jeans. I trudged back down the lane, my black Converse hitting the ground in monotone thuds.

 

As I neared my house, I stopped to dissect it. It was a pretty big house, with a stained white wood front porch and my dad’s rocking chair gently rocking on it. I could still see the paintings of vines crawling up the handle on the steps to our porch. The house itself was made of brick, and you could see the window of my parents’ bedroom and my oldest sister. My bedroom and my younger twin brothers were at the back of the house.

 

As I walked up the steps, taking two steps at a time, I could hear the voices within the house. I think dinner had just begun because I could still hear my mum hollering up the steps to call my sister.

 

I opened the front door and closed it with a click. I could see my sister sliding down the banister in the world’s shortest skirt. I could almost hear the disapproving frown from my mum. I pecked my mum on the cheek and I told her I’ll just quickly change. As I walked up the stairs to my room I could see my brothers packing away their trains in the toy basket with my dad in the living room.

 

When I got to my room, I locked the door and relieved myself from my hijab,  throwing it into my laundry basket and putting the pin on my desk. I grabbed my black shorts and shirt and slipped into the adjoining bathroom that I share with my brothers. I took the remainder of my clothes off and slipped on my shirt and shorts. I quickly exited my room and went downstairs for dinner.

 

As I entered the dining room and I could see that dinner already started. My sister Nisa and my mum were already going at. The usual argument.

 

Mum: Nisa! Where are you going wearing those clothes?

 

Nisa: I’m going to Ava’s house

 

I sighed, Ava and Nisa have been friends since they were 3. Who knows what they get up to.

 

Mum: (suspiciously) There won’t be any (cough) males there, right?

 

Nisa: (shouting) No! Why can’t you just trust me!

 

Mum: I do trust you!

 

Nisa: (annoyed) Yeah right…

 

Mum: Don’t dare talk to me like I’m just a bee buzzing around you! I am your MOTHER!

 

And so on, so forth.

They only began to calm down when my dad started our prayer before eating. We all quieted down and I moved my lips silently as I said my prayer. Once we finished prayer, we began to actually eat our dinner.

 

The food was a symphony of spices, meat and rice. My mum had made lamb kebabs with Greek Yoghurt and steamed rice. I never really liked lamb so I didn’t eat as much as everyone else. Dinner was topped of with homemade apple pie and homemade vanilla ice cream. The apple pie was a perfect mixture of sweet and bitter. The wintry ice cream battled the warmth of the apple pie in perfect swordplay.

 

By the time I was clearing away the plates, my parents were already going to tuck my brothers to bed and my sister had already slipped into her room so I was all alone in the kitchen. As I was placing the dishes into the wash I stopped to stare at the fridge. It was covered with my sister’s report cards (she always got A’s and A+’s), my art, and a few photographs featuring my brothers. I was staring at one of my artworks, imagining what I could do to make it better, when I heard a sudden crash from upstairs.

 

I rushed up the steps, thinking the worse, and it was the worse. I could see my brothers fast asleep, but I could also see my sister’s horrified face. I looked at her frantically “Nisa, what the hell had just happened?” She replied in a trembling voice “I don’t know! I think somebody has taken our parents.”

 

As she spoke my head began to swirl with fears and regrets. Why didn’t I say I love you at dinner? They might never get to see their children grow up; at least not past the age of 18, 14 and 5. I weakly asked my sister “Who took them?”

She stuttered, trying to recall what happened, “I was doing my maths homework and I, uh, I suddenly heard a crash coming from Mum and Dad’s room. I rushed over a-and saw somebody grabbing our parent’s through the window and escaping.”

 

It was at this point where I just couldn’t hold on anymore. The floor was swerving and rippling under my feet, my vision started to dim. Then it all went back.

 

Ramble Session #1

So I’ve decided to do a ramble session. I’m literally only going to write whatever comes to my mind and this’ll be like having a conversation with me! Yay.

Gosh, I’m sarcastic.

And hungry.

But I already finished all the chips, so I have to wait until I deem it acceptable to have lunch. Which is in an hour.

You know, outside of the internet, I have friends, though a majority of them don’t live where I live and there’s no way I’m paying a ticket to fly to their places. That’s what video calls on Hangouts are for!

Speaking of, I’m that one friend that refuses to have any form of social media other that Google+. How sad am I?!

Anyway, as I was saying, my friends in the real world and live near me, I don’t if I should count as friends. Their more like, I dunno, people that I spend the day with, and kind of like, but past that, I do NOTHING with them. The rest of them go and hangout together and I’m just like “Can I come?” and they sort of look and me and go “Naaahhhh…”

But it’s fine! I have you guys (which I still don’t get, I mean, people like to hear jabber on about stuff!?) the Goodreads community, and this one friend I’ve been messaging for the last 5 hours that should be awake by now and isn’t responding to any of my messages and we were supposed to have a video call today.

I’m trying to find a wordcount on here, but I can’t find it. Maybe there isn’t a wordcount on WordPress…?

 

Well anyways, thanks for listening (or technically reading!) my ramble. I hope you enjoyed it!

 

Sag Scholar

 

Word Challenge – THIRST

THIRST

Every year, hundreds of people go without water and/or food. And yet, I still find people that throw their own food away in the trash.

“Why?” I ask them.

“Because I didn’t like it.” they answer.

“I don’t like vegetables.” they answer.

“I’m not hungry.” they answer.

Just because you don’t like something, or if you’re just not HUNGRY ENOUGH to eat, it DOES NOT mean you have to throw away your food into the trash. Instead save it in your bag, because who knows! Maybe you suddenly get hungry and want to eat your food. Maybe you find someone that will appreciate it more than you.


Don’t leave your cup half empty, letting it sit there for days and days and days and days and days and days and days and days and days and days and days and days and days until you have to pour it down the drain. Never take a cup of juice or cordial and not finish it.

Never take more than you can drink. Never take more than you can eat.


 

BE GRATEFUL FOR WHAT YOU HAVE. BECAUSE WE ONLY REALISE HOW GREAT SOMETHING IS WHEN IT’S ABOUT TO LEAVE US.

REMEMBER THIS.


 

Okay. Wow. I’m exhausted. And thirsty.

I wrote this out on my blog post page, so I hope that doesn’t disqualify me. :\

So no one actually nominated me to do this (because I don’t have blogger friends), but I still decided to do this challenge (I NOMINATED MYSELF!). So without further ado I nominate these five people to do this challenge.

  1. J. A. Allen
  2. Elan Mudrow
  3. Meg (from Meg’s Magical Musings)
  4. Kent Wayne
  5. Allan G Smorra

Rules:

1) open an ms word document (or any other editor).
2) set a stop watch or a mobile for 5-10 minutes.
3) your topic is at the foot of this post.
DO NOT SCROLL DOWN TO SEE IT UNTIL YOU ARE READY WITH A TIMER
4) fill the word document with as much wordage as you want, once you start writing, don’t stop.
5) DO NOT cheat by going back and correcting spellings and grammar with spell check (this is only meant for you to reflect on your control over sensible thought flow).
6) you may or may not pay attention to punctuation and capitals.
7) at the end of your post write down the number of words.
8) do not forget to copy and paste the entire passage to your blog post with a new topic.

(I honestly just copy-pasted the rules from the blog, The Brokedown Pamphlet because I think they explained the rules very well.)

YOUR TOPIC:

IMPOSSIBLE


Thank you for listening (or technically reading) this blog post and I hope you have a wonderful day, night and anything in between!

SAG SCHOLAR

Roofs

(Hey guys! This is a little short story I wrote a while back. Just thought you guys might enjoy it!)

The clouds always seem to be forming new patterns. I’ve seen aeroplanes, trains, ducks and pigs. But other times I just see an unidentifiable mass of cloud. I like to watch the clouds from high up on the roof. The roof was always my go to spot if I just wanted to hide. It was since I was five until this day. I remember everything that happened on this roof. The stories I came up with. The people I brought up with me. The tears spilling onto the roof.

 

I remember the first time I came up here. It was with my mum. My dad was away on business and my mum and I wanted a change of scenery. I was five years old and I remember feeling like I could fly. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was beginning to set. The heat of the sun rolled across my face as I watched the sun melt into the dark void of night. Eventually my mum told me to come inside for dinner. All through dinner, all I could think about was the roof. How it felt like I could see everything. I spent so much time there. I would watch the sun rise, painting the sky bright with colour, and the sun set. And as I got older, I was allowed to watch the stars appear in the sky, like broken christmas lights lighting up the inky oblivion. I would do my homework up there. Every time I felt a writer’s block coming on, I would go to the roof with my laptop and just write up there, leaving a trail of cheesy metaphors and horrible analogies. The roof was my safe place and I never wanted to leave it.

 

But I eventually did. We moved house. My parents said they needed a bit of change so we moved halfway across the country. The new house didn’t have a good roof. We were stuck in a suburban area, where you just see the same house over and over again. I couldn’t find a place that even came close to the roof of our old house. I felt sad and lonely. I spent my first year there moping. I was depressed and distracted. I was fifteen. I had begun writing. I wrote whatever took my fancy. Horror, romance, fantasy, you name it. I already knew what I wanted to do when I grew up. I wanted to write. I always got a thrill that began in the pit of my stomach when I wrote. Each word is like a little piece of me. A chip of my existence. But now, I couldn’t write anymore. It was like every piece of my existence stayed on that roof.

 

I tried writing without my roof. Writing at school. Writing on the couch. Writing in my closet. Nothing felt right. It’s like I was a endless pit of meaningless words and undeveloped characters. A pit of bad similes and metaphors, meant to hold deep life meanings, but were really just jibberish made to make me look good. I just kept worrying that I could never write again because I didn’t have a roof. My grades slipped to the point where my parents sat me down and said that I had to focus. I couldn’t just keep walking aimlessly through my teen years. I didn’t see why I couldn’t. It wasn’t like I had a plan for when I leave school…

 

I finally accepted what my parents had said to me. I began to fully re-enter life again. I never got my roof back. But I found that actually living life gives me more existence, more inspiration, more comfort, than any number of roofs could ever offer me.