"Failure is Success in Progress"

Thursday, June 6, 2013

War


Author's Note: This is a comparison between the two characters Helen, from Greek mythology, and Bella, from Twilight. Showing the similarities between their love. 

The face that launched one thousand ships or the face that launched the fight between supernatural creatures? Helen, Greek goddess  with undeniable looks, started the heated Trojan war. Men killing for the ownership of one women. Bella, awkward girl next door, caught the eyes and hearts of two men. One being a vampire, Edward, and the other being a werewolf, Jacob. These two women represent the power and movement their love can have.

It’s mainly the power. The power of love and ownership these women’s men look for. Although the time periods are different, the personalities and plot are much alike. Bella and Helen are indecisive women. Helen had an affair while Bella was deciphering between two men. Both women live fictional lives, Bella has love with mystical creatures. While Helen lived in the times of Greek mythology. Then when they finally choose a man a war breaks out.

Monday, June 3, 2013

A few tears and a Memory


Author's Note: This is a creative piece on a girls life and death. I struggled with this piece seeing I didn't want to make it too long and boring. I also struggled with ideas for it, but I needed to achieve dialog and figurative language. 


Being dead is not what it cracks up to be. Some say we diverge to Heaven or Hell. Others say our cold carcasses rot 6 feet under while our souls disintegrate with them. I still have unfinished business. I still have questions. You look back on life and realize, why? Why the pain and suffering? Why the temptation? My life surrounded this question. Why?

I’ll start from the beginning. I was birthed into an unforgiving world; my mother was 17 and pregnant. She was left alone with me and her outlet, Ecstasy. My occurrence brought on more than enough hardships and I’m reminded of this through each day of the rest of my 16 years.

5 years old, a memory much like a tumor. Attached and deadly. I was home alone playing with my favorite and only Barbie. She was all I wanted to be like when I grew up. Bleach blonde hair, skinny, and the whitest of teeth. Comparable to the snow that had just fallen that cold December. Sadly, I turned out to be a fire blazing red head with untamable frizz, while my body formed in to the ghastly shape. Anyways, as I played I could hear my mother’s heels scuffling against the floors outside the black door. I shiver, she’s wearing her yellow pumps. The door flies open to show one of the most repulsive women I’ve ever known. You know exactly where I would get my looks from. I hide patiently behind my bed. She yells for me, I don’t move. Then her purse becomes her choice weapon. I can only endure what comes to me. Struggling makes it worse. I feel like a baseball; hit, thrown, and played around with like a piece of equipment. She takes me in to the bathroom and I become fully submerged in water. The cold sends chills running up my back. My screams are muffled and you can only hear the snickers of my mother above me. I go limp and realize this is the end. Unfortunately, it wasn't.

For some reason my mother kept me alive for as long as possible. As a grew older my education was inexistent and I was too large to do normal tasks. I was useless except for being her punching bag after a long night at the club. When I became old enough to be self-sufficient on the streets of Detroit, I would go cause mischief with a few of my neighbors. Yeah, the place has a bad reputation, but that’s only if you’re part of a gang. I was just the dealer. 

Sadly, I followed in my mother footsteps. Both walking in the path of Ecstasy (except my footprints were a little deeper seeing our weights’ varied). But It wasn’t always the high that kept you coming back. It was the adrenaline of the hand off between dealer and receiver. My mother (when she was partially sober) had explained this to me, but you can’t understand it until you’ve been there. You know the law is broken and your undeniable thirst will be quenched with the contents inside that brown paper bag. Seeing that my dealing skills began to shape at the age of 8 I got pretty good at it. My mom and I actually became more of partners  than family. I gave her the antidote and she gave me the money. Or dinero, as my friend José would say.

“Cow!” He called to me; José had a way with nicknames. Fatty or ginger would have sufficed, but he needed to keep up his reputation. 

“Mex,” I reply sarcastically. As you can see I’m not witty or funny.

“Ha ha, you got my fix?”

“You got my money?” It’s rare to see a girl dealing. Most aren’t smart enough and don’t have guts. This business is a dangerous one. Mex is a pushover so usually I can get more money out of him than the normal customer. He’s a marijuana consumer. Which I always have an adequate amount of. You see, I’m the most diverse dealer in the area. I have ecstasy, cocaine, heroin, meth and marijuana. I’m like the melting pot of drugs.

“Yeah, have you seen Ed lately? I’ve called but I don’t get an answer.”

“You haven’t heard?” I felt like Niagara falls was being held up behind my eyelids, “Ed’s… Gone…  he got involved in a drug bust. It went very wrong and he was killed by a cop.” I try to break the news in the most comforting voice possible. José’s face fell, like me most nights. A fall from a hard punch; his to his heart and mine to my face.

I come home late that night. My mother lays limp on the couch with alcohol in her hand and drool slipping down her cheek. Her miniskirt, yellow pumps, and low cut T-shirt tell the story of her night. I take her glass to the kitchen and her shoes to the closet. I take care of the woman who chooses to torture me on a daily basis. I hear the screams behind me.

“My drink? Where is my drink? Jess, you stupid girl, what have you done with my drink?” The smokers rasp in her voice reminds me of the hate she radiates.

“It was basically gone ma. You don’t need it! Go to sleep.”

“Ahhh!  You can’t do anything right! I know what I need!” As she speaks a shadow emerges from the corner of the room.

“What are you yelling about!?” A deep bellow rings out, “You idiotic women have woken me up!”

“Oh, George. I’m… so sorry! I’ll keep her quiet! She can even leave. I’ll make her leave, is that okay?” My mother’s tone softens and she melts under the presence of the sketchy man. My mouth only drops. Although, he has no reaction to her smooth words. I turn and see my mother get hit. She stands stunned by the impact of his massive fist to her stomach. I scream out and naturally I run to protect her. I block his second back-hand to her face, instead I get hit. His fists were like bowling balls. Gasping and out of screams another punch is thrown, and another, and another. Until my body lies on the floor unconscious, but my soul watches my mother sob on her knees. The so called “George” continuously kicks my lifeless body.

I still resume to ask the question of “why?”. I was never put on this world to accomplish anything. I had fallen under the spell of drugs, hung out with the wrong people, got beat by my own mother, ate too much, and died from a man I’d never met. My life had consisted of pain and essentially, nothing. Is all I will give people are a few tears and a memory?