My Blog is Sad

My blog is sad people. If you want to make it happy, comment. That is like giving food to it... please??
My blog need more love, want to give it love.. then FOLLOW.

 

If you do then I will make this my image:
So please, if you want to help just do something of the above.
Ps. He has to pee. REALLY BAD. SO help the guy, you know what to do.
PSS. As I promised I have changed my image, whoever you are (anonymous follower) I thank you.

Historic Letter

Dear Claire,

            I know I’m a sinner for this thought but it’s eating my mind. My guile towards Momma was something I wished to put in action. I couldn’t, but I still hoped. She’s probably wishing the same. We all wish you here, with us. Yet we know God will keep your soul safe. Don’t worry you are in a better place. I bet Momma even wishes I died instead of you that day, in the ship. She loved your sunny disposition, she abores my happiness.

            So how is it up there, in heaven? Down here, it’s horrible. Everything is “for the general good of the colony”, ugh.  Let me tell you how it is, so let’s say you want to play hide & seek, well guess what you can’t! Why? Unless everyone wants to play you can’t. Joseph’s dad needed some meds. For Rosemary, his mom, but they couldn’t. These selfish beings wouldn’t let him go back to England because it would take days and preparation and a bunch of lame excuses. In the end, we were all present when she died.

Days later I tried to take a stroll with Joseph, to my favorite spot, Marie’s Pastry Shop. We never made it; a spontaneous winter came upon us. We’ve had to stay inside for days. So many that we’ve lost count. I did record something else, something of far greater importance.

Deaths.

Millions, Zillions. All dead!

            Oh, Claire we’ve dropped to less than half the colony. Now I have to do the washings, dishes, and hear Momma complain about how slow I am with work and the weather. It would be much better if you were still alive. You could help me end mom’s imperative announcements on how everything, including me, would be better if you were alive. In the end we probably will end up dead, like you.

            There is nothing fun in the house. We can’t even look for fresh flowers for your shrine, the snow is too dense. I’d wish I knew how to send this letter but all I can do is pray for God to lower the snow or to tell you how much I miss you. That and to be honest for him to excuse my soul. In the end everything here is so bad. Ok, it IS terrible, the food stock has been decreasing and Momma is unbearable but BEFORE the snow the new world wasn’t all that bad. Then again if the snow will ever decrease maybe the journey might be worth it.

Your beloved sister,

Rosen Ducayne

I Do Not Regret it and I Am Not Mad

     I still do not regret it. I do not regret killing that old man, neither will i regret it later. I'm probably going to rot in jail. Still I will remember my last night with the old man and his eye.
    Oh! His eye. What gruesome feelings it caused me. Don't tell me wrong I loved that man, but his eye, his evil vulture like blue eye. I could not stand such stare.
    The last week I gave to him, was I in my nicest. Every night, for eight days -- the last eight days of the old man--I would gingerly watch the man sleep. About midnight, never would I act with cursory. Never would he be able to corroborate evidence of me being in the room with anyone. For each day, had I put in a dark lantern all closed, closed so that no light shone out.
    When the last night came, and his eye was thrust open. I grimaced. a smile of contempt, not madness. He probably was dehydrated, woken by a mighty thirst. If he could see me that night I would of caused him fear. If anyone could feel my sagacity that night, too have they been scared. "Who's There." His last two words ALL IN VAIN. For I remained quiet. Hour past I made my next move.
   Do you fancy me mad? How could a mad man make such a wise plan? Could he have thought of a thief, maybe. He had a fence and the shutters were close fastened. He feared someone would derive a single coin from his dragon's hoard. Wich he'd made me keep inventory of for plain fear of robbery.
   Why is it that you; a Nobody,keep on insisting I'm mad. For I am not in jail for madness but for murder. Yes for this plane thing I find myself behind the bars. I do not regret it; Nobody, I never will. My endeavor to kill that old man was far to great to be madness. My wise plan was too careful to be madness. So why is it that you, a Nobody, a person who is of such little importance call such a wise man mad? Oh, you still desire to know how I killed the old man? Well, Nobody, let me tell you so that your life will have a meaning.
   Clad with the heavy bed the instant I had dragged him to the floor. His heart wich simulated the courage of a soldier, wich had made me nervous, now marked the old man's hour. It could not be heard through the wall. He was stone dead, no pulsation. His eye would trouble me no more.
   Now if you still think me mad, you better shouldn't for I'd taken my precautions. I took three planks from the flooring, the less abrasive and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the board so cleverly, so cunningly that no human eye -- even his or yours.. could have detected anything wrong. There was noting to clean, there was no blood -- no stain-- I had been too wary for that. Four o' clock, I was done. As for the door, their was knocking, the bell sounded the hour.
   So now you think it's safe to surmise I was scared. You couldn't be wronger for what had I to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. Apparently a dammed neighbor heard the old man scream but what had I to fear? Eagerly I should them all the rooms even the old man's chamber.
   I lied to them, I said the shriek was my own in a dream and the old man was put of the country. I was so electrified my plan had work, they would have no clue. I asked them, no, pulled some chairs for them, mine was on top of the very man. They would never guess that they were in the room were he lay. While I myself, had convinced them. The officers were satisfied.
   Now you must be thinking, then how did you manage to be here? Well, while they sat and I answered cheerily, they chatted about familiar things. Some time within our conversation about where the old man was I felt myself getting pale and wishing them gone. I fancied a ringing in my ears, but it wasn't it was a sound low, dull, quick sound -- much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I tried talking faster but the sound increased, I grew paler. Why did they not leave?
   Had I not provided all the information they needed? Mockery, that is what it was. I swung the chair, grated it upon the boards, I swore!
   Finally did I succumb to that horrid noise. Did they not hear it, Almighty God!-- no; no? They heard!-- They KNEW!-- It was me all along. I was in agony, anything was, no, is better than that agony. Anything was more tolerable than this derision! Hippocrates, they knew it all along with their hypocritical smiles.I snapped.
   "Villains!" I shrieked,"dissemble no more! I admit the deed!-- tear up planks-- here, here!-- it is the beating of his hideous heart!"
    Son now, Nobody, do you like having spice in you life? Talking to a murderer. Let me tell you I do not regret it. So do you still fancy me mad?