Yesterday, my aunt died. It inspired me to write this story. That's all I'll say. Enjoy

To Be a Psychopath

I wish I was a psychopath. To feel no emotion, or at least not remorse; that would be great. After all, what is the point of remorse, and sympathy? Nothing. It is bad enough having to worry about yourself, but with those stupid emotions, you have to share in everyone else’s misery. It is simply no fair.

That is why I have been training myself against emotion.  The way I do this is I simply tell myself that nothing really matters. Nothing has any real meaning behind it, that is just what your body tells you as a survival mechanism. Everything just simply is. I mean what really does matter? Life? Why does that matter? No matter what we do with our lives, we are all simply going to die someday. Anything we do is to stay alive and to enhance our lives, but if life does not matter, then nothing matters. So why have emotion? There is no reason.

Unfortunately, it is not quite that simple. Emotions are buried into the very core of your being. So to fully eradicate them, you must continuously tell yourself that nothing has any meaning. You must then imagine scenarios that should create a large emotional response, and then tell yourself it does not matter, and keep telling yourself that, until you truly believe it. This is how I have overcome my fear of dying. If my death does not really matter, then why should I be worried about it? There is no reason.

This is all very well, but the thing is, you can never really know how you will respond to something until it actually happens. You can tell yourself all you want that you truly believe nothing really matters, but the only way to know you truly believe that is to put yourself in a real emotional situation.

That is why I am here. I am right outside a Marathon gas station, peering through the window at the woman sitting behind the counter. She is my target. I feel the heavy silver revolver in my pocket, and check to make sure it is loaded one last time. I am about to test if I have truly rid myself of emotion. I start to walk up to the small building, and as I get closer the adrenaline takes me and a fall into what is close to a sprint. I get to the building, fling open the door, and shove myself inside. The woman barely glances up from her People Magazine, when I raise the heavy gun, point it at her head, and pull the trigger.

I was not in there long enough to see what I had done. All I really made out was the red spatter of blood on the wall behind her. I ran down a side street nearby, then cut into a neighborhood. I could hear police sirens in the distance. I did it. I killed someone.

When I got home, I did not try to dispose of the weapon, or change out of my black clothes. I just sat on the couch, and flipped on the TV. After watching a low budget Western film, I went up to bed.

I was doing well so far, I thought. I had not yet thrown up, or broken down crying. I had not lost my appetite, as I scarfed down a large bag of Doritos over the duration of the western. Perhaps I had truly trained myself out of emotion.

I sat in my car across the street from the cemetery, where the service was being held. I watched as the close friends and family members of the deceased weeped. I watched as those who did not know her as well looked solemn. Then I watched as her four year old son was held in his father’s arms. He was too young to understand the concept of death.

“I want Mommy,” he probably complained. “Where’s Mommy?”

Then his father would say,”Mommy isn’t here anymore, bud.”

“But I want her,” he would say, not understanding how his mother could be there at one moment but gone another.

“Well she’s gone. She went away, to a nice place... to heaven,” his father would say, trying to blink back the tears in order to not frighten the child.

“Why did she leave?”

“Well.... God needed her. So He brought her to Heaven. But don’t you worry. She will always be right here, looking out for you.”

“But I want her now!”

His father just hugs the motherless child, while the two cry. One missing his mommy, the other missing his wife.

I watched this, and imagined these words, and felt nothing. No emotion, no sympathy for the boy who would never again feel the warmth or love of his mother’s hugs.

I felt nothing, because nothing mattered. That’s what I told myself, and I believed it, truly. So if nothing mattered, then what was the point of living? There was none.

I felt the heavy revolver in my pocket.

Nothing mattered.

I took the gun, shoved it in my mouth and pulled the trigger.

I wrote a story. I don't think it is my best work, but oh well. Enjoy

Down, Down, Down to the Bottom of the Abyss

I tried to be a good person. I said please, and thank you. I held the door open for people. I never killed anyone. Yet, somehow I ended up here: in Hell.

The reason I am here, if you can believe it, is because I’m vain. If you ask me, it was not really vanity, but more of self confidence. My act of sin, as my administrative demon told me, was that I looked in a mirror, and thought I looked decent. That is it. Normally this kind of thing would be forgiven, but since I died right at that moment from an exploding toilet, there was no time for me to be forgiven. So now I have to take some stupid test to see if I can escape this place, and be allowed to go to Heaven. I am not really sure what kind of test it is, but I have decided it is something terrible, as I am in Hell.

I am currently being led down a long black hallway by two large, red, spiked demons. They are very ugly, and not real friendly, for when I tried to talk to one, it simply glared at my for a moment, then continued on its way.

We continued down the hallway until we got to the end, where an iron door stood. I figured this was likely the entrance to the test.

“Well,” I said nonchalantly, “I guess this is where we part ways.”

The two demons glared at me. One then opened the large door, while the other threw me into the dark room on the other side. I landed hard, and when I looked back through the door, the demons closed the door. It was pitch dark for a moment, but then several feet away a spotlight lit up, as if from nowhere, around a pedestal. On the pedestal sat a beautiful, perfectly crafted cake. I stepped up, and as soon as I got as close as six feet away, my stomach growled, with lust for even a morsel of the delectable pastry. When I was right over it, I saw there was a card on top. It read:

Your test: Eat the entire cake within the hour. Your time starts now.

Behind  me, large red numbers appeared, counting down from one hour.

I dug into the cake, without hesitation. It tasted like heaven. It was hard to believe that  something this heavenly came from Hell. As good as it was, however, it was still massive. It had four tiers, and the first tier had a diameter as long as my arm. Even if I had the room to eat it all, speed would be an issue. Oh well, if I hesitated, I would have no chance. I continued eating.

I only had twenty minutes left, and half the cake still remained uneaten. I was sitting on the ground with a clump of cake in my hand, trying to force it down. I could not. That was it, I was just going to forfeit.

“Alright, “ I said, “I give up. I can’t do it. Go ahead, just drag me off to the abyss.”

Silence for a moment.

Then a deep, disembodied voice boomed and said, “Congratulations, you have successfully completed the test. You have proved yourself not to be gluttonous. The reason you are here must truly have been a fluke. Go, now, and ascend the stairway to heaven.”

When I heard this, I was angry at first for being deceived. Then I realized I was not going to Hell, and I decided to look past this one indiscrepancy. Behind me, where the large, unfriendly demons had thrown me into this room, the door opened.

The hallway had changed. The light seemed to come from nowhere like before, but now it was brighter. That, and instead of dark black, the walls and floor were reflective, like mirrors.

I looked down, at my reflection. To be honest, I  didn’t look half bad for just passing a trial of Hell.

That’s when the familiar disembodied voice boomed down and said, “You have failed the test. You have proven to be vain.  It is off to the abyss for you!”

Then the floor gave out, and I fell. I fell into pitch black hole, which is the abyss.

I am currently writing a short story about zombies. It is not finished yet, but we will see where it goes. However, as I continue to think about where the story could go, I find myself  thinking  about a great plot, that is really too sophisticated for a short story. I feel that it would be a good topic to use if I were to write a novel. I am not sure that I am currently at a level of writing where I would like to take on a novel, however it is something to keep in mind. I would like to outline the plot, however many aspects would be the same as in the story I am currently writing, so I do not want to spoil it.

This is the first part of my zombie story. I am not yet finished, but I figured I would at least post what I had.

The Flesh Eaters

Something seemed somehow off while I was walking Polo. It was a nice day. Warm, green, and there was a nice breeze coming from the west which kept one from becoming sweaty. Some bothersome birds were twittering their heads off at each other, but other than that, it was quiet.

It was quiet.

That is what was off. It was a beautiful Saturday, and yet not a soul was out. Not a car, or pedestrian, or bicyclist. Normally, the park would be littered with kids, and one could not go on the path without every five seconds having to step to the side to allow a jogger to pass. It was pleasant without the crowds, but now that I realized the deadness of it all, it was also quite eerie.

I passed the McDonald’s and noticed on the sign that they had come out with the triple McManwich. The sign had a cartoon of three cartoon Ronald McDonalds tucked inside of a bun. I just about gagged at the thought of someone eating one of the things. The double was a sufficiently disgusting portion as it was.

I continued my walk until I reached my porch. As I unlocked the door, my next door neighbor Laird stepped out of his house, and without even closing the door, ran down the street. I yelled to him, asking what his hurry was, but he continued his path, as if not even hearing me. I was just stepping in when several other front doors around the neighborhood opened, and the residents followed the same path as Laird.

I thought this odd, sure, but it did not seem to concern me, so I stepped inside, wiped my feet, and sank into the couch. Expecting to watch last night’s recordings, I found it very disappointing to find the president giving a speech to me on every channel. It took me a moment to fully process what he was saying. Apparently the country was in a state of emergency. He was saying something about the meat factories, but the whole thing was out of context.

I looked at the news on my iPad, and what it showed was extremely disheartening to say the least.

I read the article and it said that CannaTech, the only human flesh producer in the world, had shut down production completely. They were not going to make any more shipments, and they gave no reason as to why. The article showed footage of huge masses of people huddled around restaurants and grocery stores. No one was let into the stores, and fights were breaking out everywhere. The police had arrived, it appeared, but it would be like holding off a lion with a toothpick if things came to force.

I put down my iPad, and turned off the TV, soaking in all of the information. I had to leave this place, lest my door get knocked down and get torn apart. As quickly as I could, I packed an overnight bag, a box of canned food, survival gear, a first aid kit, clothes, and finally, a doggy bag for Polo. I piled all of this stuff, and Polo into my SUV, and opened the garage.

Since I had been inside, a large crowd had amassed outside of the grocery store, with hundreds, possibly thousands of people all trying to claw their way inside. I tried to ignore them, by driving right on by, however the crowd was so large that many people flooded into the street. Those on the outskirts of the crowd began to gather around my car, pounding, and shouting. I continued driving however, and fearing getting run over, the sea of lunatics around me stubbornly parted. I was almost out when Laird came up to the driver’s window, and with a heavy smack, cracked the window, nearly shattering it. I floored it.

Perhaps I should explain.

Several years ago there was a major outbreak of a peculiar disease which affected approximately ninety- five percent of the world’s population. This disease, had no symptoms, except for giving the afflicted an all- consuming desire to eat human flesh. If the afflicted was fed a sufficiently satisfying fill of human flesh, then they were completely fine. However, if the afflicted was for any reason denied human flesh, he or she would gradually become more and more desperate, eventually coming to the point of attacking anyone who was unfortunate enough to cross his or her path, tearing the flesh right from their body. There was clearly a high demand for human flesh, but no obvious means of acquisition except through murder.

Then, as if from nowhere a corporation called CannaTech declared that they had found a way to humanely mass produce human flesh. Nobody really knew their means, for no one really wanted to know. Since then, they have had a monopoly on the human flesh industry, the largest industry in the world. Clearly, something that huge simply shutting down without any warning whatsoever would shake the world.


Two nights ago, I had a dream. This dream took place in the middle of a zombie apocalypse, and it gave me an idea for a new story. I know that many writers have dream journals in which they write, and get ideas. Well, I'm not going to make an actual journal, but I will take an idea from a dream. Now, these were not just any zombies. They were real people, who just had an affliction that made them want to eat human flesh. As long as their flesh craving was satisfied, they were completely sane. So, there were factories that produced human flesh to be distributed to the flesh eating population. However, one day all of the factories were shut down, so all of the flesh eaters went crazy for human flesh. There was rioting, and people ate each other, and the whole thing was just a big mess. So, that is where the story would take place, from the point of view of a guy who did not have the flesh eating affliction, and had to survive.

I have finished reading the first story in The Miniature Wife collection of short stories. The one I have read is called "William Corbin: A Meritorious Life". It is really more of a fictitious anecdote about how clowns came into being.
Apparently, long ago there was actually a race of man called the Klouns. They were strange looking people who were often found performing for carnivals or some sort of show. William was not a Kloun but wished to be one, and so taught himself the ways of Klouns. He later began impersonating a Kloun and traveled to the Klounkovan territories. He was discovered however, and was run out of the Klounkovan territories. After that, he began to teach others the way of the Kloun. These people continued the craft, and taught others even after the Klouns went extinct.
It was a short fun read, which taught me a few things. First of all, it showed me that the stories do not always have to span a short amount of time, or be in real detail. This story just gave the broad outline of an entire life in three pages, as opposed to, say, The description of the events in an hour spreading over twenty pages. I will try to continue reading and postig about the stories in this book.

I have acquired another book of short stories. This one is called "The Miniature Wife" by Manuel Gonzales. I finished a few stories in the last book when I decided to get a new one. The stories in "Vampires in the Lemon Grove" were intriguing and entertaining, but I don't think they are my style. They were also, as far as short stories go, rather lengthy, and I just do not have the time these days to read and really absorb the material. In "The Miniature Wife" however, the stories are really short stories, ranging from about three to ten pages. Not only does that make them more convenient for me, but that's also closer to the length that I write.

This is a script for the original comedy event in speech team. I thought it would be a good change from my usual grim stories.

Spelling Bee

 

Announcer: Hello everybody, and welcome to the 37th annual spelling bee. It's sure to be an interesting match this year. Returning from last year, reigning supreme, we have contestant Viktor von Ivanovski. As you may remember it was a perilous fight for the title of spelling bee champ last year as they ran out of English words and had to cut into the elusively challenging Martian words. But, after a twenty seven hour marathon Viktor finally came out on top. He is the favorite to win this year, but there is some talk for incoming Rookie- um, I'm sorry there must be a typo, it just says Lil' Timmy. What? Oh, that's his legal name. Ok, well, Lil' Timmy, though he is only a fourth grader, was allowed into the sixth grade spelling bee for his extreme skill.  Oh, the spelling bee is starting. First up is contestant number one, Suzy Finklestein.

Word bearer: Contestant number one, your word is: bazaar.

Suzy: Oh, that's easy. I'm not even going to ask for the definition. Honestly, you mock my intelligence asking me such a simplistic word. Bizarre: B- I- Z- A- R- R- E. Bizarre.

Word Bearer: Oh, Suzy, I'm sorry that is incorrect. You spelled bizarre as in weird or strange. I was asking for bazaar, as in a middle eastern marketplace.

Suzy: What?! That is preposterous! I demand a new word. You can't do this to me! I am the best speller here!

Word Bearer: Security!

Suzy: I was born to be a star! A Star! You'll see! You'll all see! [Suzy is dragged off stage]

Announcer: Well, what an exciting beginning to tonight's event. The next contestant is contestant number two, the returning champ, Viktor von Ivanovski.

 

Word Bearer: Contestant number two, your word is: Harlequin.

Viktor: Ah yes, Harlequin, a buffoon, a dim- wit, just like all of you capitalist Americans. Very well, I shall spell your word. Harlequin: H- A- R- L- E- Q- U- I- N, Harlequin.

Word Bearer: Yes, that is correct.

Viktor:, Of, course it is correct, I spelled it.

Announcer: Well, Viktor is off to a good start. Now for our next contestant- ahem- Lil' Timmy.

Word Bearer: Your word is: crustaceology.

Lil' Timmy:  [ looks at the ceiling a moment as if figuring something out]

Crustaceology: (snapping as he says every letter) C- R- U- S- T- A- C- E- O- L- O- G.....-Y! Crustaceology!

Word Bearer: Yes, that is correct.

Announcer: A correct word from Lil' Timmy. Now, onto Jeffrey Weiblergh

Word Bearer: Jeffrey, your word is: unanswerable

Jeffrey: What? well then why give it to me if it's impossible to answer? What kind of cruel sick joke is this!?

Word bearer: No, no Jeffrey the word itself which you are to spell is unanswerable.

Jeffrey: What? oh. Well now you just lowered my confidence.

Word Bearer: I am sorry Jeffrey, but the word remains.

Jeffrey: Alright. Can you use it in a sentence?

Word Bearer: The extremely difficult word in the spelling bee, many considered to be unanswerable.

Jeffrey: What's that supposed to mean? Are you saying something? I might as well give up now, is that what you're saying? Fine, I forfeit, you happy? [Jeffrey runs crying offstage]

Announcer: Well, this has been quite an interesting match as of yet. We'll be right back after a quick word from our sponsors.

Commercial: Has this ever happened to you?

            Boy: I have a really fancy word that I want to use in my essay which would make me sound really smart- like, but I don't know how to spell it?

 

Well, if it has, then you need autocorrect! Because who really needs to know how to spell?

Announcer: And we're back! They have whittled away at the contestants leaving only three left: Lil' Timmy, Viktor von Ivanovski, and Stephen Spellberg. Once again, for the second year in a row, they have run out of English words and have moved on to the Terrifyingly difficult Martian words. These words have absolutely no discernible pattern to them, and some even use punctuation and numbers in the middle of them. This is bound to be very exciting.

Viktor: I don't know what you are all still doing here, but I can guarantee you, you will lose. (Evil Chuckle) Oh, yes I shall make sure of that, even if I have to break every bone in their bodies, and rip out their tongues, I will win!

Stephen: Hey, man, we can hear you, we're right here.

Viktor: Yes you are, Stephen and it is burning my eyes looking at you, now disperse, before I die from your ugly.

Stephen: Hey, man, you're kind of mean. Can't we all just be friends?

Viktor: No! I must win this spelling bee so that I can assert my dominance on America and install a communist government.

Lil' Timmy: Viktor

Viktor: What is it, Lil' Timmy!?

Lil' Timmy:  You're twelve

Viktor: Your Point?

Lil' Timmy: ... never mind

Stephen:  Hey, it looks like I'm up.

Viktor: Good luck Stephen.

Stephen: Gee, thanks! [walks away]

Viktor: You'll need it. [takes a breath from Stephen's inhaler]

Word Bearer: Your word is : [makes some guttural noise]

Stephen: Oh! I know this one. It's (gasp)... It's (gasp). [Stephen searches for his inhaler] Hey, (gasp) where's my (gasp) inhaler! [Stephen passes out]

Announcer: Oh my, it looks like we have a speller down. We will be right back.

Viktor: [doubled over, laughing maniacally]

Lil' Timmy: Hey, man you did that. You stole Stephen's inhaler so that he would have to forfeit. You are just a big meanie.

Viktor: Oh, yeah, what if I did? What are you going to do about it?

Lil' Timmy: The only thing I can do: Spell.

Viktor: Ha Ha Ha! I shall vanquish you just like everyone else. Martian words are my specialty.

Lil' Timmy:  Oh please. I'm one- fourth Martian.

Announcer: Alright, we are back. Unfortunately Stephen is disqualified, however, the doctors say he will be alright. Now, it is a duel between Lil' Timmy, and Viktor von Ivanovski. Let's watch.

Word Bearer: Lil' Timmy, your word is (guttural noise)

Lil' Timmy: (random assortment of letters)

Word Bearer: That is correct. Viktor, your word is (guttural noise)

Viktor: (random assortment of letters)

Word Bearer: That is correct. Lil' Timmy, your word is (guttural noise)

Lil' Timmy: (random assortment of letters)

Word Bearer: That is correct. Viktor, your word is (guttural noise)

Viktor: (random assortment of letters)

Announcer: Well it looks like it's going to be a long harsh  battle. We'll be right back after this message.

Commercial:  Has this ever happened to you?

            Boy: Aw, man autocorrect just put in a word for this text message that makes me sound real dumb!

            Other boy: Hey, at least you didn't have to check for your spelling! Yay!

If so, then you need autocorrect. Autocorrect: close enough.

 

Announcer: And we are back! Amazing. The two boys are still at it, perfectly spelling every word. Now all that is left for them to spell is the Martian word, used to describe all words, in one giant word. If they both spell this word correctly then there will be no choice but to declare it a tie.

Word Bearer: Alright, this is the final word. It is for all the marbles. (make an obnoxiously long strand of random noises)

Word Bearer: Viktor.

Viktor: S-

Word bearer: Oh, I am terribly sorry, that is incorrect. Lil' Timmy, your turn

Lil' Timmy: (obnoxiously long strand of random letters, punctuation, and numbers)

Word Bearer: I lost track after the four hundred twenty second letter, so I'm afraid you will have to spell it again... Nah! I'm just Kidding! That was correct. Lil' Timmy, you are the new spelling bee champion.

Lil' Timmy: Ha Ha! Take that Viktor! In your face. [dances a little bit]

 

The End

I have started playing volleyball in school. I think this is important to chronicle because, as a writer, it is good to know a wide variety of people and know what makes them tick. I am in volleyball, and the speech team, and the kind of people in volleyball are vastly different from those in speech. It is good for a writer to know these different kinds of people so that they can write about a wide variety of people and actually make it believeable. 

 

 

This is a story which I wrote. Please enjoy.

 

 

The Last Dinosaur

 

He was surrounded. There was no getting out of this one alive. Rex, the Tyrannosaurus was going to kill him. Dennis the Triceratops did not know why Rex resented him with such a passion. Dennis decided that Rex was just one of those people who felt better when others felt worse. It probably was from a low amount of self esteem. Oh well. At least when Dennis was gone, Rex would not be any better off. Dennis got on his knees, closed his eyes, and prepared to take whatever punishment he was about to sustain. He waited for a few minutes, but did not feel anything. That was odd. He should be dead right now. Then there was a thundering roar which shook the earth.

Dennis opened his eyes and what he saw chilled him to his very core.

In the sky were thousands upon thousands of suns plummeting to the Earth. It was a beautiful sight in all actuality. Dennis found himself paralyzed, staring at the incredible sight. He was quickly snapped out of his trance when about a hundred feet away, an explosive ball of fire erupted, sending flaming branches flying in every direction.

Dennis ran. He was not sure where precisely, because enormous balls of fire were falling everywhere, and consuming everything in their path, but those were just his instincts. A fireball exploded ten feet away, throwing him to the side. He landed hard and hit his head on a rock, knocking him out.

Dennis awoke. When he opened his eyes, the brightness stung. It was too overpowering, so he shut his eyes again. He was sore all over, except for his leg. He could not feel his leg. He opened his eyes again, and refused to close them until he got used to the light. He found that it actually was not bright at all. The sky was a dark grey, only allowing a few renegade rays of sun to peek through. He surveyed his surroundings, and what he found puzzled him. There was nothing but large mounds of dark grey ash, and a few charred, blackened logs for as far as the eye could see. Dennis was not quite sure what to make of this until he remembered how he had gotten there. That is when it hit him. Everything, and everyone was gone.

He began to panic and he tried to stand up but found that something was pinning him down. A blackened log was splayed across his numb leg. His leg was bloodied, limp, and mangled into an unnatural position. Dennis tried to lift the log at least enough so that he could slide his leg out. He pushed with all of his might, but alas, it was not enough. He had never been a particularly physically fit dinosaur, and his coma had sapped his strength.

Trapped under the log, Dennis was not sure what he was going to do. He had to get out somehow.

He looked down at his leg, and it rather repulsed him. It was blackened and bloodied, and contorted in such a way that made Dennis woozy if he really thought about it for a moment. Even if he got it out from under the log, it would not do him any good. It would be dead weight that he would be dragging along.

That is when a thought crossed his mind that any other time would be absolutely ridiculous. But, this was the end of the world, he decided, and desperate times call for desperate measures. Dennis was going to have to sever his own leg.

Then the question of how drifted his mind, and though a solution did cross his mind, this one was absolutely ridiculous, even for the end of the world. No, he simply was not going to do it. He was not going to chew through his own leg. He would sooner starve than do that.

So he sat. He sat and waited for hunger to take him, and wither him away to nothing but a sack of bones. He waited for three days, each day getting a little bit hungrier, and letting his mind slip a little more. Then on the fourth day, in his hunger driven delirium, he did the unthinkable, and chewed through his own leg. And he did not just cut through the flesh, he swallowed it for food. It took him several hours, but he finally got to the point where one good wrench of his body pulled him from his leg. His insanity made so that he hardly felt it.

Dennis tried to stand up, but could not stay upright, due to a combination of weakness, and the lack of a leg. It took several more tries to stay up, but once he did, he went on his way. First though, he went and retrieved his leg from under the tree; he would need food for the journey.

His destination was the fiery mountain. It was a volcano which had a large network of caves, where many dinosaurs lived around the area. Dennis thought it likely that some fellow dinosaurs would have taken shelter here during the firestorm. It was only a few miles to the cave entrance, but Dennis was still weak, and the trip was slow going. He tripped over charred logs, and rocks along the way, which were hidden by the dark gray ash that now covered everything.

He made his way to the mountain, and found the cave entrance, under different circumstances, this area would be bustling with the comings, and goings of dinosaurs of all types and varieties. It was eerie for Dennis to see it as silent and dead as it was.

Dennis was also disappointed to find the spring that so many had used in the years before, was now replaced by more of the all- consuming ash.

Dennis, stepped into the large cave entrance, and made his way up to the top of the volcano, seeing blackened skeletons as he went. When he made it to the top, what he saw sapped all the strength from his body, stealing his will to live. He saw nothing.

He hoped to find something alive, someone with whom he could share his grief and pain. Instead, all he found was more bodies, and a cliff leading to a drop that ended in a pool of molten lava.

Dennis dropped to his three remaining knees, and wept. He thought that being spared the fiery death was a miracle, a gift from the universe. Instead, it turned out to be a curse, a punishment. Dennis was the last of his kind, and what is the point of being the last of a kind if there is no one to share it with.

The last of the dinosaurs, in his insane, lonely state, jumped off the cliff into the fiery pit below.

That was how the last of the dinosaurs met his ultimate demise; spared one fiery death, to be replaced by another.

TThis is one of my previous stories. It is actually the story I wrote that more or less gave me inspiration for one of the stories on which I halted production for a later time.

The Little Vampire

            Little Vincent was a peculiar kid. He was a bit of a loner, and liked to be by himself. He always looked sickly pale, but he never showed any signs of anything being the matter. He would also disappear at the strangest times for hours, only to be found again somewhere like his room, or out in the garden. When asked where he had gone he would usually stay silent, but even when he did answer he would simply say that he didn't know, or that he had flown away. Whenever he would answer with such a remark, he would get a spanking for "running off his smart mouth." Thus, he would usually just remain silent.

             One day little Vincent was alone in the forest, playing with a cool stick that he found lying on the ground, when all of a sudden, Billy, the bully of the town, came wobbling by with his many chins, and eating a piece of cake he had stolen from a small child. He saw how much fun Vincent was having with the stick, and he was immediately  filled with envy. "Hey you, Ugly" yelled Billy very menacingly, "gimme that stick, and anything else you got." Vincent was very mad. He was not going to let this giant slab of blubber order him around. He muttered something incomprehensible at Billy under his breath. "What was that, Ugly?" Billy asked, jabbing his pudgy finger at Vincent, "I couldn't hear you because I was too busy shielding my eyes from your ugly face!"  Billy grabbed at Vincent, but Vincent swatted his hand away with surprising force. Billy went in to punch Vincent, but Vincent was way ahead of him. He dodged the blow, and lunged toward Billy, at which point Vincent blacked out. He woke up in his room, with his clothes in tatters.

             The next day, someone found Billy's body in the woods. The autopsy was very strange, very strange indeed. The only marks found on the boy's body were two small punctures, and the boy's body had been completely drained of blood. The sheriff ruled that it was most likely a snake that had bitten him

            . The funeral was held a week later, and everyone in the small town was invited. Vincent didn't cry, or even feel bad that the child was dead. Billy was a jerk. All of the other kids of the village seemed to agree, for while the service was being held, they were off in the background, playing with a caterpillar that one of them had found. Vincent was not invited to see the caterpillar, of course, for he was different, and little boys and girls did not look kindly at different. Vincent thought nothing of it, for he had never been asked to play in the games. It was a way of life for him, to watch from the sidelines as others were joyous. After the funeral, Vincent thought about the events of the past few days. He did not come to much, except that Billy had gotten what was coming to him.

             A year went by, and there were no deaths in the village. Vincent had grown considerably, and he lost his two canines, awaiting his new adult ones. The next morning, he felt for the gaps in his mouth and found that the teeth were there. This was very exciting for him. In the process of running his tongue along his new set of pearly white chompers, he pricked his tongue. Vincent waited patiently for the taste of blood, but it never came.

             "Well now that is strange!" he thought.

             The cut was rather deep, and should have been squirting out gallons of blood. Having the attention span of the seven year old he was, however, he quickly dismissed the thought and headed off to his daily affairs.

            He wandered the woods, pretending to be a fearless adventurer, slaying evil monsters, rescuing damsels in distress, and most importantly, having loads of friends.

            Deeply ensconced in his imaginative process, he almost failed to notice the deer he had come across. He quickly ducked down, and was as quiet as he could be. He spied on the creature, studied it. It soon occurred to him that he desperately wanted to eat the thing. The realization shocked him for this was a most ungentlemanly thing to do. But nonetheless,  he couldn't avoid the fact that he had an overwhelming urge to pounce on the thing, and sink his teeth into its' hindquarters, and not let go, until every drop of blood had been drained.

             He contemplated whether he should commit this horrific deed or not. But the craving for blood and flesh swelled so considerably, that before he knew it, he was chasing after the thing. And almost as soon as he had pursued it, he was on top of it, gripping it with his pale, forceful claws. This new founded speed startled the young boy so much that he almost lost his grip and lost the deer. But he didn't lose his grip. At that moment the deer's fate was sealed.  The little vampire plunged his teeth into the deer's neck and drained every drop of blood and life from it. He drank and drank until finally the blood supply had run out and there was only a large slab of dry venison left.

             Vincent didn't want meat, he wanted blood. He went deep off into the forest, in the pursuit off this delicious red liquid. He could not find another dear so he came back home very late, disappointed and hungry.

             His orphan matron scolded him for being so late. He was sent to his room without dinner (which Vincent was actually rather pleased about, because at the end of the day, Vincent had come to the realization that all he really wanted was blood). He was given a heavy spanking, and had to sleep on the cold floor for the night. He could not get to sleep, and he didn't think it was from the lack of comfort. It was from all that had happened that day. He had discovered that he was nothing but a blood thirsty animal. Little Vincent tried to cry, but nothing came out, for now that he had his grown up fangs, he was a full- fledged vampire. Because of that, he had lost all fluids from his body. He was only a shell now.

            Vincent was not happy about this. He thought that this was to blame for all of his troubles. This was why the boys and girls didn't like him. This is why he got so many spankings from the orphan matron.

            The orphan matron.

             How dare she be such a witch to poor little Vincent? She thought he was nothing but a little brat. But Vincent knew he was so much more. Did he not kill both a cloud of a boy, and a deer with his bare hands, when he was but a boy? He had found his true power that day. He became very angry at the orphan matron.

            With one powerful kick, the door to his room flew off of its' hinges. The orphan matron noticed this and came running to the source of the ruckus. Her face contorted with rage, and she was about to release a torrent of nasty language, but Vincent was immediately on her. He plunged his daggers of teeth into her neck, and feasted on her blood.

             Once his belly was satisfied, he went into the rooms of all the other orphans, and bit them. He did not kill them however. He injected his plague into their bloodstream, in order to make them just like him. He did not do this to make friends, he did this to show them how he felt, when all of them ignored him, when he was different. Well now they would all be different. This would make them sad, which in turn would make Vincent very, very happy. It was time for little Vincent to be in power now. He was done being pushed around.

             He left the building and went out to the courtyard where he looked up at the sky. He yearned to be with the stars, to be immortal, and free. He willed his body to transform into a bat, for his soul to be free from his miserable human prison. It was time to move onto other villages. This one was finished, for when the children woke up, they would have as much of a thirst for blood as Vincent, and they would feast upon the nearest source of blood they could find which would be the neighbors. He flew around the countryside, feasting on a villager or two, and planting seeds in each of the towns.

             He was finally happy, or at least he thought he was. He thought that revenge on all those who were mean to him was what he wanted, but it was not. What he really wanted was to be loved, to have someone that he could call a friend. But the chances of that were gone. He killed any hope of finding the warmth of love as soon as he killed the orphans, and the matron and Billy. Now he was cursed to live an eternity with this burden of lovelessness, or be staked in his cold shell of a heart.

Definition of a Short Story

Length:

It appears that there really is no specific length for a short story. Some say it is from 1,000 to 9,000 words, some say it is 1,000 to 20,000 words. One source says 5- 20 pages. However, the most widely used definition is that it is meant to be read in a single sitting.

Structure:

Short stories are set up like most stories, meaning it has an exposition (the part of the story where setting and characters are usually introduced and described), rising action (conflict building up to the most suspenseful part), climax (the most suspenseful part, and the part of most interest), and resolution (the end, where the conflict is resolved). However, because short story is not specifically defined, this structure can differ . Many short stories begin en medias res or "in the middle of things" so that the exposition blends with other parts of the story.

Limited Scope:
A common characteristic in all short stories is that it has limited scope. This means that there are not very many characters included, mostly just focusing on one or two characters. It also means that the setting is usually rather compact, taking place in a small area, and taking place over a shorter amount of time.

The following is one of my previous works.

Lil' Timmy and his magical zit cream

One day Lil' Timmy as he was knownaround the block was walking around the neighborhood when suddenly he felt a strange anomaly burst from his face. He recognized it immediately, for he had never gotten one before, but he was getting to that stage in his life where he was starting to become big Timmy. He knew that this zit simply would not do, if he was going to woo his playground crush, regular sized Jenny. He knew that he had to act quick, so he immediately ran over to Steven's house. Steven was the smarty pants of the block and he always knew exactly what to do. So when Lil', almost big Timmy arrived to Steven's house, naturally there was a line for his genius. Lil' Timmy knew he couldn't wait for this anaconda of a line. He decided to go with a simple but elegant way of handling it. He stepped inconspicuously out of the room, and putting on his best grown up voice, shouted "hey, I baked all of these cookies and I don't know what the heck I should do with them!" Naturally, all of the sugar crazed children went running like the dickens for the prospect of the delectable little morsels. With no line to speak of, Lil' Timmy stepped right up to Smarty Pants Steven, and asked for his advice. Steven pondered this inquiry for several moments then spoke. "I think I have just the thing for you." He disappeared behind the curtain that led to the back room and just a few minutes later, appeared with a plastic baggy full of disgusting brown goop. This disgusting brown goop was just a squirt of Neosporin mixed with some mud, but Steven knew that others didn't know that. He had been able to capitalize largely from that stuff, "magically" curing anything from scrapes, to warts. The kids on his block swore by the stuff, which magically filled Steven's piggy bank. "This should take care of your problem" said Steven, holding out his palm, "for a price." Lil' Timmy sighed. He was saving up for a pack of super chewy bubble gum, but he desperately needed this solvent. "Ok, Ok, what's your proposal?" Steven stroked an imaginary goatee, as if pondering this. His price was the same for everything. "Let's say three quarters, or a shiny nickel, we'll call it the friend discount." This statement was absurd, because not only was Timmy not his friend, but even if he were, he would not give him a discount, because everything was always the same. Timmy dug deep into his pocket, looking for the appropriate payment. He was ashamed when he looked at what he had. "I'm sorry, Steven, I only have two quarters or a mediumly shiny nickel." Steven looked at the pathetic excuse for a payment, but then he looked at Timmy's face, and how horrible it appeared. He felt sorry for the guy. "Say," he said real slowly," I guess I might give you the stuff if you give me both the nickel and quarters" A huge sigh of relief flooded throughout Timmy. "Deal!" Timmy exclaimed excitedly, and shoved the contents of his pocket into Steven's hand. Just as the first kid that Timmy had duped came in with a disappointed frown on his face, Timmy was flying out the door to try out his new product. He found his way to a large tree under which he plopped and started applying the solvent. It had occurred to him that the brown goop might simply be dog doo, and he fell for an elaborate prank, but he quickly shoved that idea aside. The brown goop was his only shot to purge the disgusting growth that was sticking to his face. He knew he looked like an idiot, so he raced home before anyone could see him. The next morning, he put a hopeful hand to his face, and what a surprise he had. All of the zits were completely gone! He went over to the mirror, and how good he looked! It seemed the magical zit cream had done more than simply destroy the zits. He looked like a whole new guy. He decided to go straight down to the playground to show off his new face to his sweetums. Arriving, he decided to tap her on the shoulder and surprise her. "Guess who!" He was so excited. "Oh hi Ti-- AHHHHH!!!! What happened to your face? Timmy was puzzled. He touched his hand to his face, and was startled to find that it was no longer smooth as a baby's bottom. It was rough, and amorphous, for Timmy had unwittingly smeared Neosporin, and mud with fungus spores all over his face. He was going to kill Steven.

This was the first story I have ever written. Well, not the first, but the first which wasn't written by a sixth grader. I have revised it, however the tone and plot remain the same. I am not really sure what this story is supposed to teach us, but I'm sure there is something to be learned.