Not the reality... :-)

So, as promised! Here is what I have been working on. The first image is the original one and the second is what I did. Hope it looks good..

and then...

Enjoy :-)

Something New

I think I am going to try something new. Whenever I think about blogging, I'm going to try and do it. Why? Because I have a hard enough time trying to make it a routine that if I do it when I'm thinking of it, I might get more posts done and eventually lead myself into a sort of routine.

Tonight, it's all about homework. After it is completed I will post a picture, but for now, here is something to hold you over :-) (except that the majority of you that are followers are 3 hours ahead and already asleep)

Delicious Oatmeal beer..Mmmmmmm

Ciao!

Its been a long time, been a long time....

So, as the dates go, It has been over a month since I've posted last. Still not much to update you on, except I have chosen next quarters classes. If all goes well, I will be full time, taking 4 classes!! 3 photo classes and one elective - Math....Dun dun dunnnnnn! But, I am happy and still doing well in school :-)

So, in this quarters class menu, I have an English class and in said English class I had to write a narrative essay. I kind of liked how it turned out, so I thought I would share. I have to warn you readers, it is a bit graphic and I blanked out while writing the last half. Enjoy!!

The Endless Dream

            Shimmering waves of sunlight dance through the windows to land on my face, awakening me from my dreams. What was it I was just dreaming about? I flutter my eyelids open, trying to adjust to the light. There are no curtains on my windows to dull the brilliance of the morning sun. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and ponder the day that awaits me.

            “What day is it today?” I wonder to myself, blinking as my eyes adjust.

            I pinch my eyes shut to try to remember. Dimly I am aware of a throbbing in my head that feels like a mortar and pestle working away at my skull and I sense it is only going to get worst. Slowly I open my eyes again, and turn my head away from the window. On the far wall, painted white as the first winters snow, I see my inspirational poster, half-hazardly taped at the corners, resembling something you would see in a teenagers bedroom or a college students dorm. It is a picture of a tiger stripped cat, dangling from a tree branch with the words ‘Hang in There’ boldly typed above. I blink, trying to recall where I acquired such a simple piece of art, if you can call it that, and roll my head to stare back at the ceiling.

            The little bumps and ridges of the popcorn ceiling thankfully absorb some of the glare from the unruly sun that has penetrated my room. They look like little mountains, capped with snow; here and there, some water spots from a roof leak in the past make small brown and gold rings, giving the illusion of dirt to my snow covered mountains.

            The throbbing in my head gains intensity and I clamp my eyes shut to block out the light. I try to remember my breathing practices the doctors taught me to control my migraines. I ease my tension so I am no longer pinching my eyes shut, but merely resting them behind the thin barrier of my eyelids. Breathing deeply, I take in as much air as my lungs will hold and let the unwanted portion of oxygen out in a slow, steady stream, counting down from four. I repeat this exercise until I am no longer aware of the thrumming in my head, but in-tuned to my every breath, coming in and going out. Gradually, I begin to fall back to sleep.

            Making my way down the dimly lit hallway, I am cautious not to brush the wall with any part of my body. The slightest sound of my clothing scrapping the walls would alert anyone on the other side of them, or someone at the end of the hall. The Glock 9mm, as black as night with a dull finish so as not to catch the light, is confidently secured in my hands, cocked and with the safety switched off. My finger rests against the side of the trigger, ready at a moments notice to slide over it and pull.

            I find the door I have been searching for; the only door painted red, faded over time, with chips of paint peeled in some areas to reveal the once deep blue of the original door. I breathe deeply. I press my ear against the door, holding my breath so as not to make a sound, and listen. I can hear movement on the other side. I wait, listening for what seems an eternity, listening for the indication that lets me know that I have finally found what and whom I have been searching for; and it comes. A mans voice, deep and melodic; soothing away any worries the other occupant might be experiencing, if she is there. I grit my teeth, stifle a growl and keep listening, barely daring to move.

            Finally, I hear it, the soft sobbing of a woman, a girl. I need to be sure. I press my ear a little harder against the door, ever so slightly, as if I am trying to meld my ear into the wood. The man’s voice assaults my ears once more, louder then before. I can hear him trying to comfort the girl, cooing to her, trying to reassure her that everything will be ok. Her sudden onslaught of tears is like a thousand daggers in my ears. I wrench my head away from the door as quickly as I dare, still trying not to make any noise. My body trembles like an earthquake with rage, the gun tightly clenched in my hands, now raised and pointing at the door. I take one more deep breath, step, and throw every pound of muscle, every ounce of rage, behind the foot that blasts open the door and…

            Shimmering waves of sunlight dance through the windows to land on my face, awakening me from my dreams. What was it I was just dreaming about? I flutter my eyelids open, trying to adjust to the light. There are no curtains on my windows to dull the brilliance of the afternoon sun. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling and ponder the day that awaits me. I snap my eyes shut from a sharp pain that felt like glass shattering in my head, each jagged edge pressing dangerously against my nerves. Instinctively, I reach to rub at my temples.

            “I can’t reach,” I gasp, realizing to my sudden horror that my hands are bound.

            I lie in bed, perfectly still, eyes wide and staring at the ceiling, my mind frantically searching for explanations. I try to raise my arm again, this time feeling for what is holding me back. The soft velvety caress against my wrist tells me that I am not shackled in cuffs, but what; rope? It doesn’t feel like rope; the pressure is to evenly dispersed, not cutting off any circulation. I try to sit up to get a better look, and my breath catches as I realize that my ankles are just as tightly bound as my wrists.

            Panic starts to sink in as I realize just how vulnerable of a state I am in. I twist my head to the left, and then the right, trying to get a glimpse of what is holding me. The light is so bright. My breaths come in ragged gasps and I finally see that I am held to a bed, a hospital bed, with brown leather straps, sturdy enough to hold a middleweight-wrestling champion. My eyes nearly pop out of my skull and I am vaguely aware of the noise in my room. It takes me a moment to realize that it is coming from me.

            The wails and shrieks that emote from my mouth are cutting enough to make an Eskimos blood run cold. I jerk and trash against my bonds, howling in rage and in terror until my wrists and ankles feel as though they are going to tear clean off my body. I feel the sticky, warmth of blood coating my skin beneath the bonds where I tear my flesh. I cry and fling tears from my face as I thrash my head back and forth, trying desperately to get free.

            Vaguely I am aware of someone entering my room. I hear voices, male voices. I thrash even more violently then before, screaming obscenities that not even the roughest trucker could have thought of; spitting and gnashing my teeth at them, threatening that if they lay one finger on me I would tear them limb from limb and make it so that not even the best forensic scientist could tell who they were, even by their teeth. Through my screams and wails, I catch pieces of what the men are saying.

            “…need some back-up” comes a young mans unsteady voice.

            “I already called to have four more nurses come to this room,” said the other man in a deep, commanding voice that spoke with years of experience.

            I continued with my panicked screeches of terror and rage, flinging myself against the bonds that held me with all the strength I could summon. Neither my bed nor my bonds moved. I was hopelessly trapped. I stopped my thrashing, arched my back and let loose a bone-curdling wail of utter defeat as the tears streamed down my face in an endless waterfall.

            The door to my room, my cell, burst open and four figures in white coats bustled in, the last pushing a polished silver trey. Through the distorted lens of my eyes, I could tell that three out of the four new comers are female, all with hard, un-blinking eyes; some filled with contempt and some filled with sorrow. The man that spoke earlier barked orders to everyone and before I knew what was happening there was a person at every corner of my bed, each holding a part of my body down; one for each ankle, one for each wrist and one to hold my head. I stared up into the face of my captor, with eyes like daggers.

            I steal my eyes away from his face as a small pinch in my left arm distracts me. As the warmth in my arm spreads, my screams slowly start to subside and become sobs, briefly interrupted for my need to draw in more breath. My sobs turned into quiet hick-ups and my eyelids flutter on the verge of collapse. As my hick-ups subside and my breathing slowly regained a semblance of normality, my eyes seal themselves from the dismay of my present reality and I slip back into unconsciousness.

            I find the door I have been searching for; the only door painted red, faded over time, with chips of paint peeled in some areas to reveal the once deep blue of the original door. I breathe deeply. I take a step, and throw every pound of muscle, every ounce of rage, behind the foot the blast that opens the door and throw myself inside, rolling to avoid a possible attack. I slam my back against a wall, gun pointed straight ahead, frantically looking from left to right. I try to spot perpetrator while simultaneously trying to locate the girl to make sure she is okay.

            I inch toward the end of the wall and peek around the corner, and see nothing. For a moment that feels like a lifetime, I sit with my back huddled against the wall, collecting my wits.

            “There isn’t anymore time,” I quietly tell myself. “You’ve made yourself plainly obvious. You need to act now.”

            A brief prayer and a quick exercise to embody calm, I stand, stick the gun around the corner and follow. I move quickly through the apartment, looking left and right, hoping against all odds that I find the man before he finds me. At the end of a short hallway, I spot a shadow glide across the bottom gap of a door. I step into the hallway, hoping the wood flooring doesn’t betray my presence. A sudden sense of vertigo overwhelms me and I almost crumble to my knees. Just barely able to catch myself on a doorknob, I haul my treacherous legs straight and try to regain my composure. The hall no longer seems like a short hall, but an endless cavern; no more hope of reaching the light, the more steps I take, the further the light gets from my grasp.

            I swallow to keep my stomach from climbing my throat, take a quick breath and plunge down the hallway, abandoning fear. The only thing that matters is what is on the other side of that door. After what seems an eon, I am finally at the door. I grab the knob. It feels strange; like ice and fire, like the winds of a hurricane and the crashing waves of the ocean. I war with myself, trying to turn the knob to let me in, to let me save the poor girl, to take down the perpetrator. Beads of sweat start to form on my brow, and my mouth twists itself into a snarl as the doorknob turns.

            The door swings open as if on brand new, recently oiled hinges to reveal a girl, head down, mouth gagged, arms and legs bound. The strips of cloth holding her arms and legs are covered in a deep red and brown, the red of blood. I stand still in the doorway, frozen, unable to move, unable to breathe. Finally, with a last ditch effort, I force myself to enter the room, one foot, then the other. It feels like trying to walk through syrup. My legs don’t want to move. Finally, it takes every ounce of strength left in my body to reach the girl in the chair. I lift her head to peer into her face. My breath catches in my throat and my eyes stare, bulging from their sockets in unfathomable horror as I look at the girls face, as I look at my face.