Superhero contest to inspire children

I saw this article on Twitter and thought it was the coolest thing ever, so I decided to share it.

If you’re interested in writing fictional short stories, Eli Wilde is hosting a writing contest where the main character is a superhero with a disability. The winner will receive $100 and will be featured in Issue One of the print version of Revolt Daily. Second and Third place winners receive $25 and $10, respectively, will be featured in the online magazine. There is also a$25 prize for the wackiest story that brought a smile to everyone’s face, and Eli will include any other stories that deserve to be read in the online edition of Revolt Daily.

What really made me want to participate, besides the fact that I enjoy writing superhero stories, is that the inspiration to run this contest came from his son, Mikey, who has hereditary spastic paraparesis and is reliant on a wheelchair to get around. A fan of superheros, zombies, and cyborgs, Mikey asked if there were any superheroes who had a disability like him. When they came up with very few names, Eli decided to host a workshop with Whizz Kidz, a charity that provides mobility equipment for disabled children and encourages them to look past their disability, to create their own superhero.

The focus of the project is to show that people with disabilities can do anything, the same as people without a disability.

The deadline for submissions is May 31. For more information, read the article, view the submission guidelines, and check out the Whizz Kidz website.


A/N: Since all I’ve been posting lately is Fanfiction, I figured it was time to post something that isn’t. I wrote this for my fiction writing class (which my professor forgot that he assigned this one but oh well I handed it in anyway and was the only one who did). It’s probably not that good because it’s only a first draft. I have thought of revising it, but not sure if I actually will or not. I liked the idea at first, but not as much now.

“Bethany.” Her head snapped up, tears stopping immediately. Fog danced around her feet, giving the first sign that she was no longer in her bedroom closet.

“Bethany.” She looked to the left. A light shone in the distance, calling out to her. Standing up, Bethany walked toward the light, curious to know what it was. As she drew closer it started to burn her eyes, so she closed them and followed the light by its heat.

“Open your eyes, Bethany.” Slowly her eyelids lifted. The light was dimmer now, less painful. As her eyes adjusted, a woman’s face came into view. She didn’t look very old, but Bethany had the sense that she was. The woman smiled. “Hello, Bethany. It’s nice to finally meet you.” Bethany smiled. She tried to speak, but nothing would come out. Grabbing Bethany’s hand, the woman walked with her around the white room. “Do you know where you are, Bethany?” Still not able to speak, she decided to shake her head instead. “This is heaven.” Bethany stopped. Horrified, she stared at the woman in disbelief. “Don’t act so surprised, my dear. You should have known you would be coming here soon.” Letting go of her hand, the woman walked across the room and sat in a white chair that Bethany almost didn’t see. “Isn’t this want you wanted? Or were you expected to turn up in hell?” Still not sure what to think, Bethany wrapped her hands around her neck, trying to feel any signs of the scarf she had artfully wrapped around it.

“I honestly didn’t expect you so soon,” the woman continued, “but then, you never expect your own children to show up, even when you know they are coming.”

Bethany’s eyes shot open. “You-“

“Don’t try so hard, Bethany,” the woman continued, a sad smile coming across her face. “You’re going to hurt yourself even more.”  A thousand questions poured into her head, none of which she could ask. “You aren’t quite dead yet,” the woman said, beginning to answer her list of questions, as if she could read her mind. “They are trying to revive you as I speak. But the real question is do you want to be revived?” Their eyes met, the woman’s serious, Bethany’s sad. Tear’s started rolling down her cheeks again. The woman stood up and walked over to her, wrapping her arms around her. “Shhh,” she tried to sooth her. “I know it’s hard. I know life is hard, but sometimes we just have to hold on.” Bethany shook her head, mouthing ‘no.’ The woman sighed. “That’s what I thought.” Giving her one more tight squeeze, the light suddenly faded, the woman’s arms disappearing, no matter how hard Bethany held on to her. Darkness surrounded her. Curling into a ball, she cried, repeating over and over, “God save me.”

Grim Reaper

I never thought my life would end so abruptly. I always pictured myself going peacefully in my sleep, my loved one’s surrounding my sick bed. So imagine my surprise when I climbed out of the hole I was digging for the next poor lifeless body that was coming in the morning to find a gun pointed in my face.
“Don’t make a sound,” a voice from behind the gun whispered. I froze. Words were exchanged, I don’t remember what now, than a loud bang went off. As fast as darkness engulfed me, white light woke me up. I blinked, trying to get the room into focus.
“Ah, you’re awake Stephen.” I bolted up to see a man dressed in a white gown, standing at the end of the bed I was resting in.
“Are you a doctor?” I asked. From what I gathered from the room I had to be in some sort of hospital or doctor’s office, although there was no medical equipment around me.
The man laughed. “Well, not exactly.” He walked over to the side of my bed and held out his hand. “Stand up Stephen.” I expected to feel weak or find difficulty standing, but I had no problem. The man took me by the shoulder and steered me out the door and into a white hallway. “My name is Peter,” he said, “and this is Heaven.” I laughed and Peter looked at me curiously.
“Sorry,” I said, “but you must get some grief from people for naming your hospital ‘Heaven’.”
“Hospital?” asked Peter, stopping in the middle of the hall to look at me. After a few seconds he chuckled. “You’ve been mistaken Stephen. This isn’t a hospital. You’re dead.”
“Dead?” I asked astonished. “B-but I can’t be dead! I haven’t turned 50 yet! There must be a mistake.”
Peter looked at me with sadness in his eyes. “I’m sorry Stephen, there’s no mistake,” he said and continued walking. I followed reluctantly, a million thoughts racing through my head at once. Being in a coma for a few years I could deal with, but being dead meant the end of everything.
“Send me back.” The words slipped from my lips so suddenly I couldn’t stop them, but it was what I truly wanted.
Peter stopped. He turned and looked me in the eye. “I can’t Stephen.”
“Why not?”
“Well, you were shot point blank in the face. You were found with your head split open. It’s impossible for you to come back to life after that. Even if that wasn’t the case it’s against the rules to send someone back. Once you come here that’s it.”
“What about my family? My wife- I have a son-” Peter cut me off.
“I can’t send you back.” My heart sank faster and faster. How could he expect me to accept the fact that I would never see my family again so quickly? Not only was I angry that he refused to help me, but that he didn’t even try. He kept going on about how the rules forbid it. In the 42 years that I was alive, I never once heard about there being rules in Heaven.
“Okay, so I can’t go back. What do you expect me to do up here? Sit and watch the clouds roll by.”
Peter took a long look at me and at first I thought he was going to yell at me, and part of me wished that he would. I was pretty sure saints weren’t allowed to lose their temper so it would be interesting to see what would happen if one did. Instead of yelling, Peter said, “Well, there is a job opening that I think might interest you.”

Months might have passed by, years even, but to the Grim Reaper it seems like minutes, even hours. I’ve killed hundreds of people, and at first it was a bit exciting. Peter warned me in the beginning that this job was not for just anybody. The person assigned had a big responsibility and could not, under any circumstances, neglect the duties of the Grim Reaper. “There will be dire consequences for the Earth and for you if anything is messed up,” he warned. I simply told him I understood and signed for my rule book, which I carried around with me at all times. There were times when I would be called to collect people who I was familiar with: neighbors, family friends, old colleagues, etc. and at first it shocked me, but as time went on I got over the shock and just reminded myself it was a way of life.
One day I received the call to head onto the scene of a car crash. As I touched down and surveyed the scene around me I heard a familiar voice screaming from across the road.
“Charlie! Charlie, wake up! Please Charlie!”
Heading over to the sobs I stopped as the scene flooded my senses. There was my wife, kneeling on the asphalt over my son, Charlie. He had to be at least 15 by now, which meant ten years passed since I last saw him. As his mother continued to beg him to wake up I knew it was hopeless. There was only one body I was coming for today and his was the only one lying lifeless in the middle of the road. The police and ambulance arrived and I watched as my wife fought them off as they tried to drag her away so they could get to the body. Everything seemed in slow motion.
“Is there anything wrong, Stephen?” a voice said close to my ear.
I blinked away tears that clouded my eyes. “Nothing, Peter.”
“You have a job to do Stephen. Don’t let your emotions get in the way.”
“But he’s only a child. Can’t you do anything to help?”
“You know I-”
“No, you can. I know the rules by now Peter. He hasn’t lost that much blood and his body is in fair condition. Please don’t make his mother suffer any more. He’s all she has.” Silence met my request. Peter sighed.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he replied before he left me. I stayed there to watch. If anything was going to happen it would happen within the next minute. Finally, after what felt like an eternity I heard an EMT say, “We got a pulse!” I could finally breathe again. I watched as my sons eyes fluttered open before the ambulance doors were closed and he was driven to the hospital. Returning, Peter was waiting for me.
“Thank you,” I said.
Peter smiled, “Don’t mention it. But don’t expect things to work out that way every time. You still have a job to do and can’t let your feelings get in the way every time.” I nodded my head and Peter left me. Although he was right, I was glad that I acted when I did. While part of me wanted my son here with me I knew I couldn’t do that to my wife. I couldn’t take everything from her, not right now anyway. Next time, I knew there wasn’t anything I could do. Next time I had to do my job.

The Investigator

Dr. Taft (6/15/09 10:45P.M.): He had a bullet hole through his back. It was obviously someone that owns a gun.

Professor McHale (6/15/09 11:00P.M.): We can eliminate the girls then.

Duchess Bianca (6/15/09 11:05P.M.): Just because we’re women doesn’t mean we don’t know how to handle a gun. I wouldn’t count your eggs before they hatch.

Professor McHale (6/15/09 11:07P.M.): But if you don’t own a gun how did you acquire one?

Duchess Bianca (6/15/09 11:15P.M.): Anyone of us could’ve taken the gun from someone who owns one. You shouldn’t only be looking at the weapon, even though it is important. You should also look at who was with the stable boy last, and who would have the motive to kill him.

Michelle stared at the computer screen, contemplating the conversation that happened 45 minutes earlier. She processed the investigation thoroughly before typing in her response.

Ms Shelly (6/16/09 12:01A.M.): It was obviously Madame DuPont. She’s well known for seducing men, which is how she could’ve acquired the gun. And he did accidently injure her prize horse which would be a good motive.

Satisfied with her guess, Michelle got up from the computer and went downstairs for a snack. This investigation was probably the hardest yet. Michelle was part of a mystery solving forum. They discussed anything mystery from books to movies and television shows. One section of the board was dedicated to mystery games and the game she was addicted to was The Investigator. It was similar to clue, except the players only had to guess who the killer was. Finishing her bowl of cereal, Michelle headed back upstairs to see if anyone had responded to her guess.

Madame DuPont (6/16/09 12:06A.M.): Well I never! Sure at times I may be a bit… promiscuous and the stable boy did hurt my Bonnie but that doesn’t give me reason enough to kill him. In case you all forgot Miss Lily, the maid, is dating him and she does have quite a temper. I think she was a tad jealous when she caught us together one night, which to me would be perfect reason for her to finally snap. I mean who wouldn’t be jealous of me? My guess is she stole the master’s gun and shot the stable boy.

Sir Byron (6/16/09 12:11A.M.) Congrats Madame DuPont! You cracked the case! Now before the next person PM’s me with an idea I wanted to throw an idea I had out. Would anyone be interested in meeting up at my place one night and playing a live version of this game?

Michelle’s jaw sagged. Quickly she typed back her answer, her hands shaking with excitement

Ms Shelly (6/16/09 12:15A.M.): Of course! That would be awesome! Just say place and time and I’ll be there!


Michelle’s hand shook as she used the door knocker on the old fashioned row home in Philadelphia. She was hoping she had the right house to save her from utter embarrassment. Having the wrong house would be so embarrassing if she wasn’t dressed up as her character, Ms Shelly. She had her hair back in a tight bun and was wearing a Victorian era maroon dress. Michelle let her breath out when a thin blonde girl in a maid outfit answered the door.

“Hello there. You must be Ms Shelly. We’ve been waiting for you.” Opening the door wider, she let Michelle inside. “I’m Miss Lily, the maid. If you would so kindly follow me I’ll lead you downstairs.” Miss Lily led her through a hallway and into the kitchen where a door on the far wall stood ajar. Going through the door and down a flight of stairs, Michelle was shocked by the view. Upstairs looked like any other home, but downstairs was transformed into a Colonial style living room. Everyone was already there, mingling with one another.

“Ah! Ms Shelly!” Turning to her right, Michelle was met with a tall, lean man who was dressed like Sherlock Holmes. “We’re all so glad you could make it. I’m Sir Byron, over by the piano are Professor McHale and Dr. Taft, on the couch are Madame DuPont, Duke Marshall and Duchess Bianca, and over in the corner waiting for Miss Lily is Nathan, the stable boy. Make yourself comfortable and we will begin shortly.” Without another word, Byron stepped around her and went upstairs. Stepping farther into the room, Michelle crossed slowly over to the table, listening to the conversations around her as she went. She didn’t like that she was late to the event. If she had been earlier she wouldn’t have felt so shy and would’ve had more time to get to know everyone. Instead she stood on the far end of the table away from everyone and watched what was going on instead. Just as she gathered enough courage to go over and start a conversation with the group on the couch Sir Byron returned.

“Gather round everyone,” Sir Byron said, clapping his hands together for attention. The group grew silent. “Now,” he continued, “we all know how the game is played. Someone will die. Everyone is a suspect, so trust no one or you may be next.” He sounded so serious, nervous laughter filled the room. Michelle looked around. Several people were listening politely, others looked bored. Everyone was itching to begin. Just as Sir Byron opened his mouth to continue, there was a loud crash. Everyone turned and several people gasped. Professor McHale had collapsed, hitting his head on the corner of the piano as he fell. Bending over him, Dr. Taft checked his vitals.

“He’s dead,” he said astonished and everyone began to murmur.

Smirking, Sir Byron announced, “Let the game begin.”

The room became dead silent. “You must be joking,” Madame DuPont said.

“A man is dead, Byron!” Dr. Taft exclaimed.

“Isn’t that the point of the game? Someone has to die.”

“But not literally!” The room grew quiet again as everyone stared between Byron and Taft.

Byron began to laugh, “Well of course he isn’t really dead.”

“He’s not?” Miss Lily asked.

“Of course not! What do you take me for? I wouldn’t really kill a man for a game. I just slipped a little sleeping draught into the drink he had upon arrival. All it does is lower the pulse so it’s hard to detect, but doesn’t stop it. He’ll be passed out for several hours but he’ll be fine.” The whole room seemed to breathe again. “Now, does anyone have any guesses?”

“He might have been offered food that was laced with something he was allergic to,” Miss Lily guessed.

“He doesn’t look like he was allergic to any food to me,” Madame DuPont replied, receiving glares from several people. “What? It was just an observation.”

“Maybe it was poison,” Nathan suggested.

“Or strangulation,” Byron said.

“Let’s go back to how he was killed later,” Dr. Taft said. “Who would have the motive to kill him?”


Almost two hours had passed since the game began and the only part they figured out was that Professor McHale had been poisoned. To get away for a bit, Michelle excused herself to use the bathroom. Although she was having fun, part of her wanted the game to end so they would be able to have normal conversation.

Her long brown hair cascaded onto her shoulders as she removed the rubber bands that held it back. There were black circles under her eyes. Ripping off a piece of toilet paper she rubbed at the circles hoping it was just her makeup running. When it wouldn’t come off, she threw the crumpled piece of toilet paper toward the trash can, but missed. She retrieved it, and when placing it in the trash she noticed an empty bottle of Tylenol sitting on top. Picking up the bottle, she slipped it into her the only pocket she had on her dress, put up her hair, and went back downstairs. Returning to the group she walked into the middle of an argument.

“This is ridiculous! Someone had to have done it! He didn’t just accidently swallow a bottle of poison,” Duchess Bianca was saying.

“How do we know it wasn’t a suicide?” Madame DuPont replied.

“That’s not the point of the game.”

“Sir Byron,” Michelle said, “where were you when Professor McHale was poisoned?”

Everyone looked up at her. Until this moment, Michelle had kept quiet listening to the accusations instead of creating them.

“I was in the kitchen.”

“What were you doing in there?” she asked, walking closer to him.

“I was making lunch.”

“Was it for Professor McHale?”

“No, it was for myself.”

“Huh, interesting.” Michelle walked toward the middle of the room, knowing that all eyes were on her.

“What’s so interesting about it?”

“Well I was just wondering what else you would use a bottle of Tylenol for.” She removed the empty bottle from her pocket for everyone to see. “Are you sure you didn’t grind a few pills up into a sandwich and give it to Professor McHale?”

Byron began to laugh. Sticking his hand into his coat he pulled out a pistol and aimed it right at Michelle. Miss Lily screamed, and everyone backed away from Byron. “Congrats, Ms Shelly, you guessed right. I killed Professor McHale by grinding up some Tylenol and sprinkled them onto his sandwich. He was the first one here so it was easy to get away with.”

“So he really is dead?” Nathan asked, confused.

“Yes, Professor McHale is dead. Like I said someone had to die to play the game.”

“I thought it was just a sleeping draught,” Madame DuPont said.

“A little fib to get the game rolling, otherwise it would’ve ended before it began.”

“You’re mad!” Duke Marshall yelled. Grabbing Duchess Bianca’s hand he said, “Come Bianca, we’re leaving. I will not associate myself any longer with this crazy person!” He didn’t take more than two steps forward when the gun was turned onto him.

“No one is going anywhere,” Byron said. “You all allowed the poison to take full effect which makes you all accomplices. If anyone tries to turn me in they’ll be turning everyone in.” The gun went off, the bullet buried into Duke Marshall’s leg, as Dr. Taft tackled Byron to the ground.

“Quick! Someone, help me tie him up!” he yelled and everyone, except Duke Marshall and Duchess Bianca, began to help. Miss Lily ran upstairs and called 911. Within 20 minutes the cops and ambulance had arrived and everyone was being questioned. As they were taking Byron away, Michelle told herself she would never go on another forum as long as she lived.

The National Mechanic

Place scene for extra credit… The National Mechanic is a restaurant in Philly you should go to it it’s awesome!  First are two descriptions and then the scene.

The white old post office building glowed on against a dark night sky.  The oak front doors were propped open and a sign announcing the specials sat propped against the edge for everyone that passed by to see.  Inside the small restaurant was lit with dim lights that were fastened to the ceiling and Christmas lights randomly placed around the room.  Some lights were placed inside candle cases while others could be found on dog statues replacing their noses and coming out their butts.  On the right side of the room old fashioned tables and benches lined the wall.  Windows lined the wall next to the tables for guests to peer out of.  On the left side of the room a wooden bar took up half the wall, a large supply of alcohol was placed in glass cabinets behind it.  In the center of the room tall tables and chairs, similar to the ones found at Friday’s or Applebees, were spread out.  A door led out of the room on the back wall, where tables and benches that matched the ones on the right side of the room also sat.  It was covered with a green velvet curtain and lead to the kitchen where only workers were permitted.  The restaurant gave off a relaxed but fun vibe.

The waitress stood behind the bar, leaning across the bar top.  Her hair was short, obviously dyed bleach blonde and black on the bottom.  Her height matched her hair, short, her skin pale as a sheet.  She wore a magenta shirt with The National Mechanic written in big black letters on the front.  A small black apron was tied around her waist which only revealed the bottom portion of her short, tight black skirt, matching the black Vans she wore on her feet. Her septum and ears were pierced. Her ears were pierced all the way around. The one unique part about her outfit was the necklace she wore, which was a pair of little handcuffs.

A young man slid onto a bar stool in front of the young waitress.  The waitress grabbed a shot glass from under the bar and a bottle of Captain Morgan from the cabinet behind her.

Pouring the Captain into the shot glass, she asked, “How ya’ doin’ Mac?”

Mac picked up the glass and downed the drink before replying.  “Doing alright. How ‘bout yourself? Been keeping outta trouble?”

She smiled, “You know it.” Looking back out at the restaurant she noticed a couple at a table on the opposite side of the room looking a little frightened.  She pointed them out to Mac. “It looks like they got lost.”

He turned around in the stool just enough to see the couple without them noticing him.  “Maybe they were passing by and saw that delicious special menu out there.”

“Ha, very funny.” Slipping around the bar, the waitress walked over to the table. “Welcome to the National Mechanic. My name is Tiffany and I’ll be your waitress today. Are you ready to order or just drinks for now?”

The middle aged couple looked out of place. Tiffany saw this often. A couple would come in expecting to be in another version of Applebees, but when they saw all the staff dressed in grunge and pierced and tattooed from head to foot they realized the mistake they made but would be too polite to leave.

“Just two waters for now, please,” the gentleman answered.

“Comin’ right up.” Striding over to the green velvet curtain, Tiffany went into the kitchen to grab the waters, and to announce to the staff about their guests. “Guys keep alive. Two yuppies just came in.”

“What’d they order?” asked Steve the bus boy.


“They’re from Jersey,” commented another waiter named Patrick.

“How do you know?” Tiffany asked as she hopped onto the metal prepping table.

“It’s always the one’s from Jersey who order water.”

Steve placed two glasses of water next to Tiffany, so she slipped off the prep table, grabbed the glasses and went back out to the table. Heading back over to the bar she took her place back in front of Mac, who had polished off the Captain.

“You payin’ for that right?” Mac nodded. Tiffany stared back at the couple and watched them sip their water cautiously. “They’re from Jersey.”

Mac turned around in his stool. He was so drunk that he almost fell off but he caught himself in time.

“Hey! Hey, you!” Mac yelled at the couple. They looked over at them, obvious fear on their faces. “Yeah you heard me! Why don’t you go back over the bridge where you came from?” The couple slowly rose from the bench and made their way to the front door. Mac jumped up from the bar stool. “Yeah that’s right! Run!” He chased after them, yelling obscenities. Tiffany rubbed her face. Note to self, she thought, Mac, alcohol, and Jersey yuppies do not mix.

The Tale of Little Red Riding Hood (final draft)

Shuffling out of the movie theater, Debbie yawned and rubbed her eyes. It was nearing midnight and she had school the next day, so instead of stopping at an obscure 24 hour restaurant for a bite to eat she made her way up 60th Street toward Park Ave where her apartment was. For being so late at night, there were plenty of people out on the streets.

Continue reading

Till Death Do Us Part

Jason slumped over the cluttered kitchen table, his head cradled in his hands. His fingers furiously rubbed his tired eyes. The past week had felt like a terrible nightmare. It all started when his wife of ten years lost her battle with lung cancer earlier in the week. Not only did Jason have to take care of the viewing and funeral, he also had the painful task of consoling their only daughter. Melissa was only five years old, too young to comprehend what was really happening. She didn’t realize that mommy was never coming back, and Jason couldn’t think of a better way to tell her than by saying, “Mommy’s with the angels now.” Using his fatherly instincts, Jason held his daughter every night that week after she woke up calling out for her mother. After putting her back to bed, Jason cried also, not only because he too missed his wife, but for his daughter who would never get to know her. Standing up, Jason left the kitchen, and walked down the hall to his daughter’s room. Silently pushing the door open, Jason stood in the doorway and watched quietly as his daughter peacefully slept the night away. After five minutes of watching his daughter sleep, he left her bedroom and went across the hall into his own. Sitting on the edge of his bed, Jason remembered miserably the new problem that had arose a day or two after his wife’s death.

As soon as Jason began to come to terms with the death of his wife, he was informed by his doctor that he had terminal skin cancer. This information shocked him. It was as if the cancer that had finished off his wife decided to take over his body, and finish him off as well. Jason couldn’t bear the news, and it sent him into a depression. He hadn’t told anyone yet because he couldn’t bring himself to tell his family so soon after his wife’s death. As Jason thought back to the moment when the doctor informed him of his terminal cancer, a wave of sadness and anger overtook him. Reaching under his bed, he pulled out a tackle box that contained a pistol he had bought years ago for protection. Punching in the right combination, Jason opened the box and stared at the weapon. To him it was his only way out of the pit he had dug himself into. With the medical bills piling up, the funeral costs, and his overwhelming sadness, all Jason wanted was to be happy with his wife again. He picked up the pistol, and realized how cold it was. Soon he would be cold just like the pistol was now, but the pistol would be warm with life. It was as if they were trading places if only for a little while. With the thought of seeing his wife again, Jason placed the pistol to his temple. Just as he was about to pull the trigger, ending everything, the image of his sleeping daughter entered his mind. If he killed himself he would be leaving her all alone, and he suddenly realized he couldn’t bring himself to it. Not only could he not let his daughter lose both her parents in the same week, he couldn’t let her lose them both ever. No substitution parents could replace all the love that he had for his daughter, which was more love now that he had already lost the love of his life. Melissa was all Jason had left of his wife, and he couldn’t abandon her when she needed him now more than ever. Removing the pistol from his temple, he placed it back in the tackle box. Locked it back up, and slipped it back under his bed.

First assignment for Creative Writing: write a two page story on death or love or both. This is my first idea, the other idea I had was the man found out his wife cheated on him so he kills her, he kills their daughter cause shes not his kid, and then he blows his brains out. To me that seemed more like a murder story though than death, so I stuck with this one.


I dreamed a dream…

I was devastated. I was in love. Never, in my whole life have I felt that way about another person. He was sweet, charming, and just… marvelous! There were times that I couldn’t even feel my feet on the ground. I felt as though I was floating on air. The way his eyes looked into mine was so magical. I knew I had found the one I wanted to be with for the rest of my life.

Unfortunately, some people did not feel the same way about our relationship. My father is a brute! A horrible, horrible brute! He knew I found someone I loved and had to take it away from me. If he’s not happy, no one can be. What I’m trying to say is, my father shot my one true love. Don’t think me mad! I watched him do it with my own eyes.

My love had come to my window where we exchanged a few quick words. I watched as he slipped away into the oncoming night. When he was close to the far corner of the street I saw a figure step out from the shadows. Even from far away I knew it was my father. I couldn’t see his face but his stature was unmistakable. I could even see the shadow of the gun in his hands. My senses heightened and I was frozen in fear. My love raised his hands, as if trying to calm him down, proving he had not weapon. They seemed to have a few heated words but everything was too far away for me to hear. I was on edge. What was going to happen? I didn’t only fear for his life, but the possibility of my life without him as well. I was hoping my father wasn’t going to be such a horrible man and just let him go. My hopes were too high.

The shot rang out in the night and I saw my love crumple to a heap on the ground. I let out a strangled, tortured cry. Rushing from the house and down the road, I fell next to my love’s lifeless body. Tears cascaded down my face as I tried to close up the gushing hole. It was no use. He was already gone. Clutching his hand, I laid my head on his chest. No sound of a heartbeat destroyed me. I stayed crumpled next to him for a long time, wishing I could have done something to stop all this. all the while my father towered over the scene, a sinister smile playing on his lips.

This entry is titled I dreamed a dream because this is based off a dream I had at 7 in the morning. It was really weird. The disclaimer is that it wasn’t my real father or boyfriend in the dream, which I’m glad about. I was really upset in the dream but if it were my real dad and boyfriend I would be 10 times more upset.