Us youngsters put our feet forward. We want recognition. I’m not the person to speak for fame, attention and publicity, I do this for life. I am speaking out.
We may think this is our own life, but really we live for everyone. And so, I would also like to take this moment to thank every person on this very planet during this time. From famine to homelessness, we have all been there; now we must do the same, always.
We may not like the judgements and choices of such people, but we must stand by them to save ourselves. Politics are not needed now; support and love is what we need. Stay safe and keep on smiling- Bee.
The truth is, we don’t know how we’ll react until the moment strikes, like now. Until the gun is pointed at your temple and you can smell the metal of the barrel. Will you be strong enough to do it? To face the gun and say, “Choose me. Shoot me. Kill me.” When the time comes, what will you choose? Your life or theirs.
One day we’ll make the right choices. People change, even Satan used to be an angel.
Run back into the fire to rescue the dog. Donate a kidney to a friend. Marry for love, not for money. We like to think ourselves of heroes. Tell ourselves we will sacrifice our safety, health and happiness so someone else can have theirs.
What we don’t question is, trust. If you made a list of people you trusted, would you put your name down? Would you say you would save someone’s life? Would you say you are concerned about a dying friend? Would you say you purely love your other half? You’ve been through hell in your life? Do you still know where heaven is?
Do you want to hear the real version of life? Then don’t hide away when I say something a little raw. The more the dark room has stuff inside, the more pain it causes: it’s darker than darkness.
How long must us unworthy souls wander? This life is a burden, must we really consider life?
“I don’t get any of this,” Joe muttered to himself, he glimpsed at the seats around him. “Perfect students.”
They wore smiles, love for life and the attention to education.
The sweat trickled down his back, free flowing like condensation on a window pane, it beaded on his forehead and dripped from his chin.
“What was the answer to this question? I don’t know?” He frustratingly asked himself.
The shuffle of students eyed him for any chance of cheating.
“Mr. Joe, if I catch you cheating, I’ll rip up your exam papers and give you a big fat F.” His teacher arrogantly said.
Joe looked at the clock. The clock was a clown, the sort you'd get in some Stephen King movie, tick tock, tick tock, tick tock, FAIL.
“Times up. Give me your papers.” His teacher grinned evilly and snatched Joes paper out of his grasp. “You’d better be hoping for a great outcome.”
His devilish smile widened and Joe could see the dark cracks of his teeth, powdered with caffeine.
He sighs, closing his leather journal and setting it (along with his pen) aside in his small, light cerulean blue satchel. The satchel had been his best friend ever since he had found it in the antique store five and a half years ago when mum and dad had given this to him as a kind of early birthday gift. It was the last memory of mum’s passing. And a sadness for dad. He didn’t want to keep it as it dug out painful memories.
“Ha Joe! What kind of school bag is that? Your grandmas?” Steve laughed, merciless bully of the school.
“Give it back Steve.” Joe powerlessly said.
“Why? It doesn’t bring back mummy’s memories, does it?” Steve mocked.
“Steve, Don’t bring family into this.” Joe snarled.
“Or what?” Steve pressed Joe on.
“You’re gonna get it from me!” Joe raged.
“Mummy’s boy should come and get it?” He questioned.
Joe felt the anger pulsate through his veins and pumped his heart so that he could feel his heart beating in his brain: it was like an earthquake.
“Hey Joe, no need to get angry, it only needs a clean.” Steve laughed and hovered it over the bin.
“You wouldn’t?” Joe asked.
“Oh, I would,” Steve said and dropped it into the dustbin. “Are you gonna start crying?”
White knuckles from clenching his fist too hard, and gritted teeth from effort to remain silent, his hunched form exuded an animosity that was like acid - burning, slicing, potent. His face was red with suppressed rage.
He clenched his fist, a vein popped out of his forehead. He swung his arm. Steve began to feel light-headed, his legs gave way and he crumbled to the ground. His vision blurred as tiny droplets of sweat ran down his forehead.
“Why? Why did you hit Steve? Why!” Dad shouted at Joe.
Joe had just entered with his bag slung around his shoulder, he pulled it off and threw it across the floor. It slunk beneath the radiator.
“Did you hear me?” Dad asked trying to keep his cool. “You know his father is your teacher. You idiot!”
“He threw my bag in the bin!” Joe screamed.
“So you punch!” Dad shouted.
“Yes!” Joe answered back.
“Do not raise your voice at me Alexander James Jonathon Daniels!” He roared.
Joe hesitated and felt a hitch in his throat; he swallowed hard. For a moment he remembered the times when his mother helped him. He was now left with this old fool.
“I wish you died and not mum.” Joe yelled and slammed the door shut.
Dad lowered himself in his arm chair hopelessly, “I wish I did.”
Tired eyed, he slumped over. He could feel the tiredness inside him like a worm, slowly but deliberately draining his life. He’s alive, but not really living. He hears, but not really listening. His vision is a hazy fuzz, but he still wanders the earth for his son.
“As you all know… we had a test last Friday,” Mr Moloch said, whipping his head to the left. “Some did good…”
“Some did bad, very bad,” he said, spitefully locking eyes with Joe.
“Definitely not me.” Joe sarcastically said.
“Yes you.” Mr. Moloch snarled as he leaned in. “Fail.”
He chuckled as he walked back to the front of the classroom. “You can all leave. Except for Joe. I’d like a word with him.”
Joe gulped in fear as his fingers trembled.
Mr. Moloch waited until the door was pressed closed. He silently made his way to the chalkboard and started writing words unrecognisable to any human.
“Sir…” he asked.
“Mr. Moloch stopped writing and dropped the chalk to the floor where it split.
He pulled out his hands by his side and from the fingertips, it became blue.
It was like a needle of blue die was injected into his fingertips.
“Sir?” He repeated anxiously. “You’re… you’re turning blue.”
Mr. Moloch snarled like an animal and jumped around. “You know what I want and I know what you want, right?”
“You’re not going to get the gemstone!” Joe shouted as he pulled out his sword. “You’re not going to get anything.”
“Oh! I will.” He slowly whispered.
Suddenly he pounced forth.
His teeth, eerily incandescent, emitted a strange blue glow and were as sharp as a fine diamond sword. His skin was mostly scar tissue. What fur there had been was tufty and thin, providing no protection to the elements at all. On his torso and face were recent scabs from a meal that had fought back. His innocent looks were deceiving.
“This is going to be too easy.” Joe muttered to himself.