My Death, 2

This starts where the last one left off, so you might need to refresh your memory before reading this.


The rest of the ride to school passed with Stacie’s relentless teasing. Robin directed all her witty comebacks out the window.
In the school parking lot, Robin and Stacie met up with Brent. The stocky guy usually spent Friday nights out with his wrestling team, but spent in between class periods and lunch hour with the girls.
Brent was a chick-magnet by definition: football-sized biceps, clean-shaven dimpled chin and dark eyes, and his widow’s peak ending in a boyish curl. Most girls freaked if Brent so much as smiled at them in the halls. This was regular ammunition for Robin’s and Stacie’s good-natured jibes.
This morning, on their way into Chemistry, Stacie hung playfully on Brent’s arm.
“What?” she asked dramatically, “No adorable girlfriend to steal you away from us this morning?”
Brent pretended to ignore her, but a nonchalant smiled escaped. “Don’t let your boyfriend see,” is the only reaction she got out of him.
During these antics, Robin usually stayed a safe distance away, egging either one on, depending on which one had the upper hand. “No, Brent,” Robin joked, “Don’t let any girls see. No need to break heart before lunch.”
Brent’s olive skin flushed a deep purple. “I’m not the one with the boyfriend,” he repeated.
“We should hope not!” Stacey gloated. He was defeated. Like a cornered snake, Brent jabbed Stacey in the ribs. She was fatally ticklish and doubled up on the spot. Unluckily, she became a road block for the student traffic behind her.
She shouted when the boy stumbled over her. He was one of those tall, gangly boys who gain their height in high school but have to wait until college to fill in the rest.
Robin didn’t see his face. Brent apologized to him, but none of them knew his name. In fact, after Robin planted Stacey back on her feet, the three continued to Biology and Robin forgot all about it.

Stepping through Mr. Barrus’ door and meeting his stern look, they quickly dropped their jokes to whispers. Stacie let go of Brent’s arm and flung her backpack onto her desk with a bang. Robin and Brent took seats on either side of her.
“Today,” Mr. Barrus announced, “is lab work. Pick partners, all of you. Or do I have to assign them?”
Suddenly, as if a blender switched on, the class conglomerated, each partnering singling out their best friends before they were claimed by someone else. Without a thought, the trio grouped and made for the lab space in the back of the classroom, strapping bug-eye goggles to their faces.
“No,” declared Mr. Barrus, suddenly appearing behind them. “No three-some. One of you go find another partner.”
Wordless, Brent shrugged and sauntered off. Robin and Stacie glanced at each other before suctioning on the goggles and selecting their frog.
Brent, who wandered around the room for several minutes, was unable to find a free partner, until Mr. Barrus finally joined him with a kid who planned to complete the lab alone. Robin recognized the guy but didn’t know his name. It was fine; Brent could get along with anyone. Robin concentrated on taking the frog apart and piecing together her new plan.
“Before you begin,” Mr. Barrus droned, “know the rules: There will be no mutilations, no puppeteers, and what is your question Miss Jarrett?”
“Um, are we sure they’re dead?” Stacey inquired. Robin knew exactly what she was thinking. The worst kind of blood is warm.
“Yes.”
“How can we be sure?”
“Well, if Miss Jarrett would like to take a pulse…”
“I was told they were sedated,” Robin added. “What if they wake up?”
“They were sedated, Miss Daw, to death. Now if you two are past your fears of zombie frogs…” he allowed the class to giggle for a few minutes before relaying the rest of the instructions.
Stacie, however, couldn’t stand the sight of blood, no matter the temperature. While she alternated between pretend fainting and making throw-up noises, Robin carefully sliced down the frog. Stacey named herself scribe and allowed Robin to dictate the notes to her.
She largely ignored Mr. Barrus’ cautious directions. Going mostly by feel, Robin carefully dissected the frog and her next plan.

The drive home seemed longer than usual. Robin lived on the outskirts of town, where the roads became windy and less busy. “You really need to get your own car,” Stacie commented on the way. Robin turned her attention to the passenger window, only to be met by the little white house from this morning. She quickly averted her attention to the road ahead.
Her windows dark, but Robin wasn’t worried; she often beat Tom home. Thanking Stacie for the ride, Robin practically leapt through the back door, the only one they kept unlocked. Robin left her backpack on the couch and dashed upstairs to her room. She had left her laptop on her desk, humming, the screen dark. Robin slid into the swivel chair and rubbed her finger over the mouse pad to revive her computer. The screen brightened to reveal a Google search with many tabs. Their headings were as varied as their subjects: how to perform a Séance; Necromancy online bookstore; Thanatos in Greek Mythology. Robin erased the subject for the latter and re-entered the search: Reanimation.
The search revealed loads of websites, most useless site for horror junkies like Ghost Hunter’s Chatroom or do-it-yourself computer animation programs. The few that held any promise were all hypothetical, the sources ranging from online sorcerers to hopeful medical professionals. Robin edited her search several times; practicing reanimation; bring back the dead; Reanimate the dead. Ultimately, the search was fruitless. Sighing, Robin put down the window and closed the laptop. She sat bemused for a few minutes, swiveling her chair, twiddling her hair and staring at nothing. In a second, she shook herself awake from a daydream. Robin vacated her room to take up her usual residence in the kitchen. The laptop sat alone in the dark, humming.
Robin swung the refrigerator door open in search of left-over’s or something microwaveable. Nothing. The freezer dinners were freezer burnt and the cupboards equally fruitless so she settled on her culinary specialty, scrambled eggs smothered in ketchup, and settled herself in front of the TV to do homework.
A few moments later, the back door’s rusted hinges announced an arrival and Tom walked in, stomping concrete off his shoes. He looked up and saw Robin with her scrambled eggs. “Homework?” he asked, glancing at the flashing TV.
“Yeah,” Robin replied, scooping red eggs into her mouth. “Biology.”
Tom nodded. In a predetermined rut, he strode into the living room, shut off the TV, and walked past Robin’s armchair into the kitchen. She dug into the cushions until she found the remote and switched it back on. Behind her, she heard Tom exclaim at the age of the freezer dinners. Robin already shut her text book and switched off the set before Tom poked his head around the corner. “Is there anything else to eat?”
“Do you like eggs?”
“No ketchup, please.”

They sat opposite each other at a table for six. Tom always insisted they eat around a table ‘like a normal family.’ That phrase annoyed Robin, but she never said anything. It was like Tom thought they were some freak mutation trying to imitate the real thing. She sat there bored, her eggs already eaten, and endured Tom failing to start a decent father-daughter conversation. He asked aimlessly about school, friends, boys, until all the general topics were exhausted and Robin could safely excuse herself from the table. She dumped her soiled plate into the sink and escaped to her room.
Shutting the door behind her, Robin dove into the swivel chair and wheeled it back to the desk. The laptop was humming louder than usual; Robin knew she shouldn’t leave it on all day if she didn’t want it to overheat. She checked her email inbox—empty as usual—and tried a few more web searches all without success. It wasn’t surprising, because Robin didn’t even know what she was looking for.

That night Robin was brushing her teeth in the bathroom across the hall. Tom poked his head in for a quick goodnight before sauntering off to his bedroom at the end of the hallway. He always went to bed early, except on Sundays. Crossing the hall, wanting only to flop into bed and not move until six-thirty, Robin shut her door behind her. Before she could flop, however, She noticed something tacked to her door. It was that horse calendar Tom had given her last Christmas. Robin hated horses. She was terrified of them ever since one bucked her off one summer. She’d left the calendar up because throwing it away made her feel guilty about Tom. It wasn’t his fault if he didn’t know his daughter at all. He wasn’t much of a family man.
She stared at it from where she sat on the bed. A mustang herd stampeded towards her, ears back and eyes rolling. How did a photographer take a shot like that? A dark line formed on her forehead. Robin climbed off the bed, marched over, and pulled out the tack. The calendar fell and lay on her bedroom floor like a wounded goose. She still lacked the courage to throw it away, and it was getting late, besides. Robin decided to forget it was there and climbed back into bed.
As much as she wanted to lose herself completely in blissful, dreamless sleep, one stabbing though kept getting in the way: the spirit boy.
He had been so casual about the whole business. Thanatos warned Robin that recalled spirits were usually violent, eager to share the truth about their life and death with the living, but this kid acted as if death was no big deal. Everything about him suggested the difference between the living and dead was as slight as who remembered to put deodorant on that morning and who forgot—the way he regarded Robin, he must have thought that she was the latter. It was those eyes that wouldn’t let her sleep. Those brown eyes had been totally indifferent, but completely aware. He wasn’t a vague sort of person; he noticed everything. Robin could tell by the way he looked in her eyes and seemed to be viewing her entire thought process. He’s aware of everything, Robin thought as she lay motionless on top of the covers. Death must be very boring.

Then a thought occurred to her. She sprang off her bed and dove underneath, rifling until she snagged a six-inch-thick tome. The faded cover read Thanatos. She flipped aimlessly through the yellowing pages. It was as dull a read as a computer manual and much harder to understand. The language looked like Shakespeare, with F’s replacing S’s and thou replacing you. Most of the book she hadn’t even glanced at; until now, she had mainly focused on “VI: Conversing with Death.” But tonight, sitting cross-legged on her bed, she studied page after page. She discovered chapters on anything you could possibly want to do to (or with) a spirit that has moved on. She searched until she found something more tailored to her situation.
Nearly an hour passed before Robin found what she was looking for. She stashed the library book in its usual spot under the bed and wormed into her sheets, still in her jeans and t-shirt.


Robin ran to catch up with Gordon.
“Does Mom know?” she asked, panting as she tried to keep up with his long gait. The ranch wasn’t a far walk: a few blocks outside the subdivision.
“It won’t kill her.” A smile split Gordon’s tan face.
Gordon worked for a rancher during the summer to earn the money for football. Gordon didn’t really have “smarts” so football was his ticket to college. The owner of the ranch, “Butch” Cutler, was an old cowboy who cussed through his smile and smelled of chili. Robin loved to visit him.
The horses weren’t used for recreation since they had to be fresh for herding, but Butch, who had three daughters, wasn’t opposed to young girls helping with a round up. Robin had never ridden a horse before, but Gordon assured her it was easy.
“Just let them know who’s boss,” he told her as Robin followed after his broad back.
Somehow, the journey seemed half as long, because Gordon was already opening the stable doors. It was dark inside and Robin could smell the horses long before she saw them. The one nearest her, a dapple gray, blew Robin’s hair with its musty breath.
“Can I ride this one?”
“What one?” Gordon turned around from saddling up a chocolate-colored Bay. He paused.
“You sure you want to ride her? She’s…” Gordon said, but Robin gave him a certain nod and he immediately consented. “Ride close behind me,” he instructed, “Grey will follow Rose.”
Robin was still too short to mount, so Gordon gave her a leg up. Grey was really fat; Robin felt like she was doing the splits. She gave Grey an experimental kick on the sides. Grey tossed her head, but stayed put while Gordon disappeared back into the barn. Robin waited several minutes before he reemerged, leading Grey’s double. As soon as Gordon mounted and urged the horse into motion, Robin’s horse started a little and trotted to keep up.
“They’re twins,” Gordon called over his shoulder to Robin, who was clinging to the horse’s bridle and mane, suddenly very aware of the height of horses. “Grey can be a real pain, but she’ll follow her sister anywhere.”
The ride was smooth for the first part. Just shy of setting, the golden sun sprinkled through the tree cover inside the pasture. Robin relaxed a little. She forgot the dangerous animal below her. Birds sang and Gordon talked. Grey, head down to follow her sister’s tail, walked at a leisurely pace. They had all the time in the world.
Gordon and Robin chatted the whole time. Gordon glanced behind him to respond to Robin’s half-shouted questions. Mostly, they talked about school. Gordon told Robin about girls and school work and which teachers to avoid with she became a freshmen. Robin gave Gordon girl advice and asked questions about the boys who wouldn’t leave her alone. Then they reached the stream.
It was wide, but fairly shallow. Gordon snapped a twig off a nearby tree and threw it into the current and proved it slow enough. Clicking his tongue, he encouraged Rose into the stream. Halfway through, the water came up to her knees. Behind him, Robin was having trouble.
Grey stopped an inch from the water. She looked to her sister, who was crossing without trepidation. She looked back at the water. Suddenly, Grey grunted to encourage her sister to return, but Rose sloshed steadily forward. Grey tossed her mane and her ears went flat. Climbing onto the opposite bank, Gordon turned around just in time to see Grey buck.
Robin held on tight. She felt like she was clinging to a tiny boat in the middle of a storm, like she was in several car crashes in succession. Suddenly, she wasn’t on the horse anymore. The impact with the ground knocked the wind out of her. Between gasps and coughs, she heard Gordon sloshing his mare back out of the river. Rose calmed her sister while Gordon leaped off. Immediately, he checked Robin for broken bones—by tickling her, of course.
Gordon lifted Robin out of the dirt by her armpits. He told her she was fine, but Robin knew she’d feel the bruises in the morning. Gordon hoisted her onto Rose and mounted up behind her. Grey, suddenly the model of serenity, dolefully clopped after Rose. Gordon, describing the hilarity of his sister’s fall to Robin, re-forged the river.


At the beep of the alarm clock, Robin flung off the covers of the bed and landed flat on her stomach. Digging under the bed revealed Thanatos. Robin sat up and opened the book to where her place marker was: “XI: Visiting the Dead.”

The last we saw of Dunningham Bridge

It was a thick overcast, and the sun's powerful glow was scattered through the scene. The old bridge seemed tired and weary of its thirty years in the suffused light. Traffic was low for a large city; every car that drove on felt it was intruding on the lazy morning. Kim Harding was not paying any attention, because that's what tinted window and half-blown car speakers are for - to make you forget. She paid her five dollars to the man aat the toll booth and drove up the bridge's slight incline. At the crest of the ark, she slowed. And stopped. And rolled down her right side window. And turned down her music. She stared for a couple seconds. And then, instinctively, she slammed on the gas pedal and was off the bridge an instant before it was smashed to peices.

The man in the toll booth was reported missing. The newspapers were livid for about two days, called it everything from a flash flood to an act of a restless god. One witness claimed he saw the water "bulge up, and then go flat down". Scientists from geothermal to erosion to aquatic biologists were called in and hung about for days, measuring things and capturing fish and digging little holes. The biggest mystery, though, was just completely gone the bride was. Hundreds of tons of metal were demolished in a clean line on the shore. And nobody seemed to know where the entire middle of it had gone.

My Death, Chapter 1

“It’s not fair!”
Stacey jabbed at Robin. She nearly ran off the winding country road in the process.
“Hey!” shrieked Robin and nudged the wheel back for Stacey, who was laughing too hard, her blond hair getting in her face.
“You’ll kill us both!” Robin shrieked at her.
“Ask some one, or I will kill us!”
“No!”
“Oh!” Stacey pouted her glossy lips at the road in front of her, “Why not? If you don’t, I’ll be all alone with Jeremy at the dance, and I’m sure you’d like that!”
“Everyone’s already been asked,” Robin countered, looking out the window.
“Nu-uh, I could name five guys who haven’t been asked yet and are just dying to go.” Stacey, without looking, waggled a white, bony finger at her best friend.
“Then you ask them,” Robin replied, grabbed the finger in a fleshy tan fist. “I’d love to watch people kill themselves over who gets to kiss you goodnight.”
“Don’t be lame, Robin.”
“Fine. I'll ask one and you'll ask the other four.”
“I’m serious! Plenty of people want to go with you!”
“Name one.”
“Brent.”
Robin made a show of shuddering. “We’re just friends. It’d be weird.”
“Robert and I are just friends.” Stacey said helpfully.
“Friends who go to a movie every weekend and stay in the theatre an hour after the movie ends?”
“Once.”
“Twice.”
“We were talking!”
“With tonsils?”
“You weren’t even there," Stacey coolly pointed out. "You wouldn’t know. And don’t,” she quipped, making another poke at her best friend, “change the subject! Ah!”
The blue sports car suddenly jolted as if it went over a huge speed bump.
“What’d I hit?” Stacey exclaimed and squealed the breaks.
Robin was already pushing the passenger door open.
The terrier was one of those little, skinny, white ones with a red spot on its back.
“A dog,” she mouthed at Stacey through the windshield. Stacey, the dog lover, cupped her hands over her mouth. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Robin really didn’t want to hear her friend cry; it sounded like a hyena coughing up a hair ball. Instead, she took off her windbreaker and wrapped up the tiny body. Its flank was caved in where the ribs should have been. As she held it in her arms and carried it to the side of the road, her heart sank. It was still breathing.
“Is it ok?” Stacey panted from behind her. Robin could already hear the sobs forming in Stacey’s throat.
“It’s fine,” she lied. “Is your car ok?”
Stacey raced back. Robin let go of her breath and laid the little dog down. She unfolded her jacket to assess the damage. Its leg wasn’t natural and its rib cage shuddered, looking like wind over water. To make it even better, the puppy—for it couldn’t be very old—started to regain consciousness. It made the most pathetic whimpers.
Robin bit her lip and brushed her brown hair behind her ear. A second’s hesitation, then she grabbed the puppy’s quivering snout and wrenched it sharply to the left. Its whimpers stopped. Robin felt her heart freeze.
“Is it ok?” Stacey said, returning more composed.
“It’s dead,” Robin answered. “I’ll bet it belongs to that house over there.”

Robin told Stacey to call her dad and let him know about the car, which had a small dent in the bumper. Robin, little dog body in her arms, crossed the street behind the sportscar because Stacey could never handle blood.
The small lawn belonged to an equally small, white house. It had hula-hoops and tricycles in the driveway. Without pausing, Robin climbed the steps to the front door and rang the doorbell, nestling her jacket into the crook of her arm to do so. Answering was a little boy who looked about nine with brown hair and bare feet. He looked at her vaguely. Behind him was a woman in dirty jeans.
“Yes, what is it?” the young mother asked with a tired and polite smile.
“Is this your dog?” Robin said, uncovering the terriers face. The boy’s face changed from blandness to shock. Silent, it stayed there.
“Dandy?” he asked. Then in a moment his freckled face screwed up. Surly and reverent, the boy took his dog out of Robins arms. She bent down so he could do so. He marched past Robin down the steps and around behind the house out of sight.
“Alex?” His mother called. She followed him, wringing her hands. Robin was left standing awkwardly on the porch and shivered. It was still early spring and quite cold without a jacket.

Back in the blue car, Stacey was tapping at her phone.
“Was it theirs?”
“Yeah,” Robin answered, clicking in her seat belt.
“Too bad,” Her friend murmured, starting the car.
As they rumbled down the road, Stacey continued, “Anyway, who are you going to ask?”

That Day on the River

This is what I want to submit into the BYU contest. I'm kinda procrastinated mailing it, so as soon as you read it if you could critique, that'd be great!

The day was hot, the line was long, and my panic was rising. It was youth conference, and I was fourteen years old. All the youth in the stake were waiting their turn to enter the slow-moving river with their inner tubes. Well, I had been a good girl and brought my own tub. It had a leak. The air was audible as it left the tube feeling limp in my hands. I left my group at the water’s edge to find an extra tube to use instead; they were sure to have one, weren’t they? Well, they had all been taken, at least all the ones with holes smaller than mine. Worried, tubeless, and friendless, I decided to give the river a try. The tube had to last a little while, didn’t it?

Now I had to look for a partner, because the leaders had stressed the buddy system in orientation to the point where it sounded like, “Have a buddy or you’ll be shot at dawn.” The numbers of youth had dwindled to single digits, so I had to search fast. There just happened to be two people that were on their own, too: Rachel, a recently graduated girl from my ward, and Brandon, who was carrying a tube big enough for a bear to float on.

And so it was that our trio embarked. It took only about five minutes for my tube to become nothing more than a flimsy piece of rubber that floated next to me as I swam. Brandon was a gentleman and offered me a seat on his tube, but being a stubborn teenager who didn’t want to seem helpless, it took me a while to accept. But, I finally found myself sitting on the biggest tube I’d ever seen next to someone I hardly knew. I thought I remembered him from eighth grade track a few months earlier, but I couldn’t be sure. When you’re the slowest on the team, you don’t really get good bonding time with other runners during practice.

That was how we went down the river. Rachel, who had taken my tube in addition to her own, had to hold onto our tube to keep from racing ahead. Brandon’s oversized tube had so much drag that we moved much more slowly than nearly everyone else: that meant that we had lots of time to talk. We never did run out of material for conversation. Oh, it probably dwindled here and there, but it stayed up pretty well for three nearly complete strangers.

Disembarking was a bit of an adventure itself. Several male leaders had stretched a rope across the river just as it was starting to get a bit swift, and we were supposed to grab the rope and stop the tube, and then make our way to the side. Rachel did well enough, she just had to stand up and carry our tubes to the bank. For Brandon and I, it was a bit harder. The tube was too big to grab securely without using both arms wrapped around it through the middle, and we still had to grab the rope. This part in my memory is a bit blurry, but I may have blocked it out because there were some minor rope burns involved. But we eventually made it to the bank, wet and smiling. Our friendship could have ended there, with a cordial, “Thank you for letting me use your tube. It was fun,” and then never speak to him again; but it didn’t happen that way. We parted on the bank with a “See you tonight,” on both sides, and with excitement for later, because some things you can’t go through without making a friend, and one of them is riding all afternoon on the same inner tube.

That evening there was a bit of a party outside the church. There was food and games and all the youth, still excited from the float trip. Brandon and I found each other and hung out the whole night. We talked and ate and attempted some volleyball, but mostly we just walked and talked. At one point we walked around a corner and saw a couple holding hands and walking. That was the only awkward moment I can remember; we made sure we had a good three feet between us for the next little while until it wore off. When the night ended of course I had a crush on him, but besides that, we’ve been friends ever since. We’ve been through some crazy things together, including journalism classes, a musical, the vice principal thinking we were kissing while watching a security video (the kiss never actually happened), and me puking while at prom with him. But those are all other stories, and merit their own essays. The important thing is that none of those stories would have happened if it weren’t for that day on the river.

Why I'm Not a Scientist II

I've done some major remodeling here, but I think it lacks good transitions between paragraphs and isn't very consistent. OR maybe I'm trying something new. Let me know which one you think. If you liked the first edition, let me know so I can know which to enter to the contest by January 31!


The tiger shark is a glutton among fish. They feast upon sea turtles, poisonous jellyfish, dolphins, whales, pigs, cows, and men overboard. Far from the ocean’s gourmet diner, dissected tiger sharks have been recorded to contain a plethora of flotsam and jetsam, including license plates, oil cans, and tires. A ferocious hunger is evident before they are even born. The shark hatches out of its egg while still inside its mother. The first shark guppy hatched, being far from a connoisseur of mommy’s milk and instead born at the ovoviviparous caviar assembly line, quickly devours all of its unborn brothers and sisters. This disposition carries with them as they mature, acquiring taste after taste of the endlessly bizarre. With an insatiable and cruel craving, the tiger shark prowls the black shallows of the tropics, their noses keen on the scent of blood and stomachs eager for carnage; they claim an appetite of almost human proportions.
There are humans among us with a desire to consume, not sea turtles or oil cans, but knowledge. These predators are yet hungry and not satisfied in their thirst. These people have many names, but know them for what they really are: Scientists. These hunters are stalking predators, sneaking up on herds of unexpecting questions. They weed out the old and sickly, questions that have been around for ages, conquering past challengers with powerful paradox, but are now old and weakened by time’s buffeting answers. The merciless scientist, camouflaged by promised results and romantic ideals and global warming, sneak up on these questions until they are a breath away and—pounce!—it is dispatched in a quick blow of logic. Another mystery has gone the way of all the earth.
However, hopeful environmentalists, let us not take science away from our human society. Despite their savage instincts, and uncomely appearance, scientists are part of a healthy ecosystem. Were it not for the Scientist, questions would run rampant about the earth, their numbers would explode, and we would be living in a terrible society where man denies circumferential earth and the sun is again a tiny blip in the sky that circulates about us.
No, we needn’t fear the hungry scientist, but love them for the answer-spewing, top-of-the-food-chain, dominant oafs that they are. Be patient with them, because they right now they are reading funny maps with weird instruments and shouting long words across the room inside our heads.
It’s nothing to be ashamed of. All humans are subject to those ranting know-it-alls upstairs. This is because we were all born ovoviviparously into a world subject to that hideous power, that looming strength overhead, the awesome How. He dominates this world. He greats as a friend, one we love and fear. His shadow’s icy breath chills our necks and makes our palms sweat. We always whip around, hoping to catch a glimpse but we are too slow and he’s already hiding somewhere else: under our feet or behind our ears, like a game we can’t win. And we don’t necessarily want to. But however this symbiotic friendship pesters and pleases us, it is nothing to what we feel in our hungry stomachs.
Never mind How’s pleasing whisper, his provocative flavors and painfully pleasurable paradoxes, he can never conquer a terrible squirming inside us—never outdo the throbbing in our bellies. He’s powerless when compared to a tiny, fleeting Why. Scientists in our brains, with harpoons laced with poison, have hunted this beast inside our bowels, but they have yet to outwit it. It’s elusive taunting grates on the nerves and caresses the emotions. Like a tiger shark guppy worming through our intestinal thoughts, hopes, and dreams, it quickly devours all unborn ideas, growing fatter and stronger, and soon it will eat us, too. It’ll consume us from the inside out, until there is no prevail, until you are left destitute. Your brainy scientists will be stumped. They’ll pull their hair, remove their glasses, and the rub their temples. We’ll be on our own and powerless.
Then Why will swallow us whole as easily as a license plate. The whole world will be a black mystery. It’ll be dark and murky. We will wandering blind for a solution with outstretched palms. Sometimes we’ll bump into How, his bulky silhouette barely outlined as black on black. Sometimes he will give us friendly directions this way or that, but really he’ll be as lost as we are and evanesce as quickly as he comes. Alone again, we will wander, desperate, cold. Until we trip on someone. Me.
I am Writer. I am Voyager, Discoverer, Explorer. I am learning, and hope that you can, too. My goal is to map out Why, to seek out the secret hideouts and tunnels behind the bookshelves. I will share my discoveries, allow you all to read my travel log as I seek out my buried treasure maps, unearthed, carefully used and well-treated by early craftsmen, then reburied for the discovery of later artists to use with equally great care, to also find this deep treasure of writing, the answers to the squirming tiger shark Why inside us all.

Why I'm Not a Scientist

This is an essay idea I really like; however, I know several things need to change. I think I know what needs to change, but I'd love ideas of how to change it. Any thoughts?

The tiger shark is a fascinating species. They're most famous for their capacity and affinity to digesting anything they come upon. Dissected grown tiger sharks have been recorded to contain a plethora of flotsam and jetsam, including license plates. Their peculiar diet is evident before they are even born. The sharks hatch out of their eggs while still inside their mother. The first shark guppy born then commences to devour all of its unborn brothers and sisters, for important nutrients as well as narrowed competition. Many laymen would affiliate this behavior with that old adage, "survival of the fittest." The question I've always wanted to ask was this: Why survive?
There's a shocking number of unanswered questions in this world. Things that can't be totally proved or things that have remained unearthed for centuries, mined for by countless generations of every recorded people, race, and nation. Some people are bothered by these anomalies. These are the same people, who if we told them to NOT eat another cookie, threatening "or else," They'd gobble it up in three bites, if only to discover what the "else" was.
They have many names, but we all know what they really are: Scientists. These people must prod and poke at every aspect of life natural and synthetic to know the impossibility looming over us and breathing down our necks: HOW.
Discovery is important. It is in the human psyche. We are sentient beings, driven by our rush for knowledge. This is not an argument in opposition of that belief, but a mere personal corollary: Humans need mystery.
The whole world is a mystery. Scientists may be able to explain how the trees grew, or even how they evolved into trees, or how birds evolved to sit in them. Yes, scientists are very involved with how, but so rarely do they answer the inevitable question of
why. No number of tests and educated guesses could ever really answer this question, which worms through our innards like tiger shark guppies, devouring all other questions that could compete in our subconscious.
This question calls to a particular type of person. They have significantly fewer names than all the titles scientists can claim. In fact, most of them prefer the one and simple that they wear with pride: Writer. These are the people who if we asked the average life expectancy of a frog, they'd likely answer in the most unlikely way possible.
These two Peoples are very similar, actually. In fact, the only difference at all is which unstoppable force they'll adhere to: How or Why?

I am a writer. I am Voyager, Discoverer, Explorer. I am learning, and hope that you can, too. I will share my discoveries, allow you all to read my travel logue as I seek out my secret treasure maps, unearthed, carefully used and well-treated by early craftsmen, then reburied for the discovery of later artists to use with equally great care, to also find this deep treasure of writing, the answers to the squirming Why inside of us.

If Life Was a Musical

I don't write poetry, so bear with me and be nice...

If life was a musical,

Would I sing along?

Raise my voice and sing aloud

An undaunted song?

If life was a musical,

Would my songs be sad?

Or reflect the happy times

That made me feel glad?

If life was a musical,

What songs would I sing?

Songs with minor, mournful tunes,

Or with joyful ring?

If life was a musical,

Would I sing of God?

Or focus on the trifles

Like riches or pomade?

If life was a musical,

I would sing along:

A noisy and joyful sound

Turned into a song

I would sing songs of friendship,

Songs of tales abroad,

Of joys and hurts and healings;

I would sing of God.