Monday, February 28, 2011
One day, Two prac reports
By now we are all starting to feel some sort of chaos. whether its within our physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual health. I mean today in physics chin said we should have had our prac reports done by the end of the lesson. well the thing is, i hate it when teachers expect you to know something. Its a pain because its always different to another teacher. well anyways the rant of the day. and probably of this week. Shazaaam!
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
My short story
Neil
His arm-hair rose in anticipation, as he clenched the container of gasoline. He always admired the way fires lit up the night, but tonight it was different, he was alone, and his heart was not in it. Feeling an unfamiliar nervousness, sweat dripped from his hands as he approached the overly ornate doors of the mansion. He put down the container just a few yards from the front of the house. With his towel covered brick he smashed a pane of glass in a lower window. Although the ‘clink’ could be heard no-one stirred. Yet he turned around expecting a response. Then he remembered the incident. He sighed deeply and took hold of the heavy gasoline container. ‘Let’s just get this done’, he said to himself at the prospect of earning an easy one hundred thousand dollars. He steadied himself and stepped in the politician’s empty mansion. The pungent odour of old houses hung in the air, a reminder of the prestige that this building used to have. But he ignored this as he carefully covered the house in gasoline, humming the tune his brother always sung.
He stopped in front of a bedroom door it could have belonged to any teenager. Like his brother say! The remains of basketball and baseball posters littered the floor and peeled from the walls as if mocking him. This could be Neil’s room. Not this room! He turned away as if in disgrace, not feeling mentally capable of entering the room. He trod carefully down the stairs, in order to reduce the risk of gasoline spilling on his clothes. He flicked his lighter twice, to appreciate the glow of a lone flame. It went out. He flicked once more and threw the metallic lighter onto the floor into a pile of old papers. In reaction, he slammed the door and ran in the opposite direction as fast as he could. Suddenly, large spotlights illuminated him and he swore under his breath. I’m sorry brother, I couldn’t do it without you, he thought to himself.
“Get down, on the ground now!” someone screamed at him, as his knees buckled. He felt weak. He knew he just become a lesser man. He was worthless.
The police lowered their weapons as the teenager overwhelmed by emotion began to sob. Quickly they rushed to subdue him, after checking for weapons on his body. They pushed him down hard on the ground. Interestingly he gave in easily. “Normally they give us fight, Sarge. What’s the story on this one? Any record?” Furthermore, the teenager continually mentioned the name ‘Neil’, what was this all about? The arson attack was carefully planned and scorched all the rooms of the home. Yet, there was another surprise, as one bedroom was barely by fire and that alone showed a lack of professionalism. Something was wrong, very wrong.
Neil’s brother shivered against the upholstery of the police vehicle. Quickly he searched for an escape, but the only memory that would appear was of that ‘incident’. However the uncomfortable worn leather burned into the base of his hands preventing even the least reprieve. He continued to ponder to ease the pain, but the constant radio chatter edged him closer to insanity. Eventually he had reached the end of the threads of sanity, and yelled to turn on the radio. The officers provided no response which only caused the pain to heighten once more. He felt inferior to the officers who were simply just a few metres in front of him separated by a cold metal mesh. Menacingly, it held firm and secured him away, in a moving prison.
When the police car halted quickly to a stop, Neil’s brother flew forwards immobilised and exhausted from the mental and emotional torture. Quickly fresh air rushed into the vehicle, providing that peace of mind. But the moment was short, too short, and he was shoved out of the vehicle with a sense of urgency. He saw the blue letters ‘Police Station’ and tried to seize the last opportunity of freedom, the fresh air.
The wait in the lobby to continue the procedures was the only opportunity that he had finally felt a release. But this was short-lived, as he soon heard the clacking of hands tapping away on keyboards and the wall clock ticking away. The wait was bearable this time, as the interview seemed to pass by instantaneously. The realisation of finally being behind bars was approaching, but it didn’t faze him at all. He felt something worse, the feeling of loneliness, the feeling that he knew he would never get to feel the presence of his brother, not being able to attend his funeral, not being able to visit his grave, never seeing his face again. He screamed in agony. ‘NEIL!’
His arm-hair rose in anticipation, as he clenched the container of gasoline. He always admired the way fires lit up the night, but tonight it was different, he was alone, and his heart was not in it. Feeling an unfamiliar nervousness, sweat dripped from his hands as he approached the overly ornate doors of the mansion. He put down the container just a few yards from the front of the house. With his towel covered brick he smashed a pane of glass in a lower window. Although the ‘clink’ could be heard no-one stirred. Yet he turned around expecting a response. Then he remembered the incident. He sighed deeply and took hold of the heavy gasoline container. ‘Let’s just get this done’, he said to himself at the prospect of earning an easy one hundred thousand dollars. He steadied himself and stepped in the politician’s empty mansion. The pungent odour of old houses hung in the air, a reminder of the prestige that this building used to have. But he ignored this as he carefully covered the house in gasoline, humming the tune his brother always sung.
He stopped in front of a bedroom door it could have belonged to any teenager. Like his brother say! The remains of basketball and baseball posters littered the floor and peeled from the walls as if mocking him. This could be Neil’s room. Not this room! He turned away as if in disgrace, not feeling mentally capable of entering the room. He trod carefully down the stairs, in order to reduce the risk of gasoline spilling on his clothes. He flicked his lighter twice, to appreciate the glow of a lone flame. It went out. He flicked once more and threw the metallic lighter onto the floor into a pile of old papers. In reaction, he slammed the door and ran in the opposite direction as fast as he could. Suddenly, large spotlights illuminated him and he swore under his breath. I’m sorry brother, I couldn’t do it without you, he thought to himself.
“Get down, on the ground now!” someone screamed at him, as his knees buckled. He felt weak. He knew he just become a lesser man. He was worthless.
The police lowered their weapons as the teenager overwhelmed by emotion began to sob. Quickly they rushed to subdue him, after checking for weapons on his body. They pushed him down hard on the ground. Interestingly he gave in easily. “Normally they give us fight, Sarge. What’s the story on this one? Any record?” Furthermore, the teenager continually mentioned the name ‘Neil’, what was this all about? The arson attack was carefully planned and scorched all the rooms of the home. Yet, there was another surprise, as one bedroom was barely by fire and that alone showed a lack of professionalism. Something was wrong, very wrong.
Neil’s brother shivered against the upholstery of the police vehicle. Quickly he searched for an escape, but the only memory that would appear was of that ‘incident’. However the uncomfortable worn leather burned into the base of his hands preventing even the least reprieve. He continued to ponder to ease the pain, but the constant radio chatter edged him closer to insanity. Eventually he had reached the end of the threads of sanity, and yelled to turn on the radio. The officers provided no response which only caused the pain to heighten once more. He felt inferior to the officers who were simply just a few metres in front of him separated by a cold metal mesh. Menacingly, it held firm and secured him away, in a moving prison.
When the police car halted quickly to a stop, Neil’s brother flew forwards immobilised and exhausted from the mental and emotional torture. Quickly fresh air rushed into the vehicle, providing that peace of mind. But the moment was short, too short, and he was shoved out of the vehicle with a sense of urgency. He saw the blue letters ‘Police Station’ and tried to seize the last opportunity of freedom, the fresh air.
The wait in the lobby to continue the procedures was the only opportunity that he had finally felt a release. But this was short-lived, as he soon heard the clacking of hands tapping away on keyboards and the wall clock ticking away. The wait was bearable this time, as the interview seemed to pass by instantaneously. The realisation of finally being behind bars was approaching, but it didn’t faze him at all. He felt something worse, the feeling of loneliness, the feeling that he knew he would never get to feel the presence of his brother, not being able to attend his funeral, not being able to visit his grave, never seeing his face again. He screamed in agony. ‘NEIL!’
Monday, February 21, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Undecised?
Ever felt like you cant decide? I get that a lot. I mean the choice of following a large group vs a small group vs soloing is hard to choose between. *context needed*
but still. Its so odd. you probably wouldnt understand nyways.
but still. Its so odd. you probably wouldnt understand nyways.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Embarking on a new quest
I decided yesterday to go ahead with a fire pokemon only challenge. tough but i like it. i hope i can enjoy it as long as my schooling week. btw its been okay
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
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