The Musky Room

The walls of this small room had seen many faces, coming, and going in a sense. Never by their choice. HE just wanted HER to be happy. HE could not have any sympathy or mercy for those that hurt HER. HE knew that SHE would never do anything about it herself. So to show how much HE cared for HER, HE started bringing this list of "offenders" to this room. Dark, musky, and the smell of rust, possibly urine, and something rotting. The dirt colored wallpaper that aged and peeled down the walls in some places, gave the room an eerie personality. A steel cold chair sits in the middle of the room waiting patiently for the next victim. One light hanging tenuously from the ceiling. No windows in the room, a camera in the top corner of one of the walls silently peeking at the occurrences. The door help multiple sets of locks and bolts. HE would ask them a few questions, usually why they did what they did to HER, but it would always end the same, a slow and painful withdrawal from this world.

Curious Eyes, Painful Questions

The little girl stared into her Mothers eyes. Innocently curious, and yet still had the patience for her mother to attempt to gather the correct words.

"Mommy? Where is daddy?" she asked again, this time with a hint of worry.

A moment of silence took place as the mother tried her best to find the best way to explain it. Nothing came to mind, either too sad, or avoiding the question completely.

"Honey, Daddy" She began tenderly, " Daddy can't be with us anymore." Without the young girl having to say another word, she knew that answer wouldn't suffice. How do you tell a little girl the age of 7 that her daddy had died in a terrorist attack a few days prior. They never found any trace of him, the last they had seen of him was the silhouette as he waved out his car window to them in the early morning, before going to work.

"Is it because of the accident at daddy's work?"

"Yes," sighing the mother tried to explain again, " he was in the building when the airplane hit it, and so God took him up to live with him. He Loved," she thought for a moment, "LOVES you very much. He didn't want to leave you."

Intro

When I was a wee little lass I hated both reading and writing. I wasn't the best reader and I struggled with bigger words. I don't know exactly when, but I read a book that I really enjoyed and thus, I was hooked on books. I don't recall when I started to write, but it was within my Jr. high career.


WRITING! writing is by far better than reading. I am a loyal journal writer, I not only just write in my journal everyday, but I write all my thoughts, what's going on in my life, and what's even better I vent all the things i am currently pissed off about. It is basically my emotional outlet.


I like to write poems, I have a notebook full of them. But, I have also fallen in love with short stories, or sometimes even research papers of my choice(but I do not write them in my spare time). I have taken Honors English ever since 9th grade, and am still in that adventure. Throughout all these classes my favorite assignments are the ones that i get to pick and I am allowed to throw myself into. In English classes, depending on the teacher, there is rarely an opportunity to write about something you are truly passionate about!

I DO! I want to be a writer... whether I am a published author or whether I just write for myself, I know that in one way or another I will continue to write until the day that I am physically incapable! If it weren't for writing I most likely would be in an institution with padded walls around me, or just insane and running around free!!! So if I write a book and it magically gets published during my lifetime that would be FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC, but if not I am perfectly fine with that.