Killer Smile

Category Archive

The following is a list of all entries from the Writing category.


[I think this is the best poem I’ve ever written.  I just found it in my old English notebook]

Today it rained quite like milk, not unlike in
Hollywood, where milk is used to substitute rain, because
it shows better on camera.  Do you
see any symbolism in those three lines?

Is there a secret meaning
something shown at special screenings?

Notice the couplet?
Or the alliteration?
This is a haiku.

And there is no meaning behind that, either.

See what I’m saying?
Yell if you do
Milk clearly represents the
boldness lacking in the translucent rain.
Oh, you don’t get it?  You don’t see the
light fringes of sarcasm?



I wrote one :D It had to use the rhymes moon/soon, loose/truce, and fear/sear.

A Conversation With the Moon, At Night, During War

I talk to the moon
All hell has broken loose
I will be dead soon
I’m not ready to call truce

All hell has broken loose
What is coming evokes fear
I’m not ready to call truce
Oh, I feel the pain sear.

What is coming evokes fear
I will be dead soon
Oh, I feel the pain sear
I talk to the moon.


Another Santa

[More old poetry]

The white beard that isn’t really white
It’s a charcoal gray
Wirey without fluff
The cheeks not red
Like they’re supposed to be
Actually a little green
‘Cause he doesn’t like
to fly
But he does
And ’cause of that
the jolly is gone.

My Bird

[Another old poem]

I. Have. A.
Rocky. Rocky
flies; through the air
Around a house. And
into my room, again. This time
with a message.
Not for me.
But. For. My. Other.

Dear Stranger

[I wrote this poem last year]

Dear stranger,
You are not so strange to me
I have noticed you
Watched you
I have written you down on paper.
You probably do not notice me.
I hear you
I interpret your face, your eyes, your clothes
Your life.
You do not notice me.
We pass every day, stranger.
Maybe once or twice your glance has
Met mine?
Have you ever wondered
What I think?
What I do?
I have done this, for you.
I find you interesting, stranger
You make me think.
About your history
Important dates
This is who I am
But I long to know, who are you?
Are you like me?
An observer too?

Random Drabbles in Community Service Class

But I promise, I wrote this in science ;)

I tell her that I’m sorry, but I know she doesn’t believe me.  Heck, if I were her, I wouldn’t believe me.  It’s not that I’m lying–oh how I wish I were–I guess I’m just not a very believable person.  I mean, I show all the signs of a liar: my hair is greasy from bad genes and my palms sweat constantly.  I was born with a stutter that my obnoxious parents were too proud to correct.  It’s not my fault, really.  I swear I’m telling the truth, but people always think I’m not.  I couldn’t pass a lie detector test asking what gender I was.

And another little thing.

I feel the poison rise up the veins in my arm, but I continue to write.  Write.  Written.  Wrote.  To most, it is just homework for English class.  To me, the word is power.  The arm is power.  Ink is permanent, a dastardly weapon to be used with force, which is why I Sharpie the words into my arm with as much emotion and power and force that I can possibly muster.  This is not the first time I have written on my arm, and though I recognize that it is a bad habit, I know I will not stop.  I write in anonymity, I write from the point of view of a singular unknown individual, and yet the individual could be anyone.  My individual is man or woman (or even, sometimes, both or neither), old or young, usually in the middle.  They have infinite knowledge or no knowledge at all, and they talk to someone, another unknown, another one who is everyone.  My individual, it has power.

Random Drabbles in Science Class

There are 33 minutes.  Think slow, think hard.  Ask one question.  What do you do?  I’ll tell you what I do.  I spend just ten minutes thinking, and then five minutes running, doesn’t matter where.  That leaves me 18 minutes to get really, really drunk.  But that’s not an option for you.  Doesn’t matter what I do, but what you do–that’s what’s key.  That’s why I’m telling you, think hard, think slow.  Ask one question.  There are 33 minutes.


Please tell me what it is, sir, exactly that you want me to do.  Yes, I will wait.  I will think, long and hard, just as you request.  But what is it that I am waiting for?  Now I ask you to think long and hard about what exactly it is that you are asking me to do.  Do not mistake me for your servant–I am by no means required to do what you tell me to.  But I am a loyal and honest young man, if I do say so myself, and if you ask me to do something I will honor your requests with sincere reason.  Please do not doubt this.

Oh, by all means, do not misinterpret my opinions of your honesty.  I do not doubt the validity of your opinion, in fact, I find it to be more valid than most, which is why I am telling you: there are 33 minutes left.  And perhaps you misheard the second half of my statement: you may ask one question.  Regretably, I believe that the thing you have chosen to implore is not the correct question, and therefore I–albeit regretably–cannot answer it.  My deepest apologies.

A Poem I Wrote

Please keep in mind that I usually don’t write poetry.  I don’t have a title for this.


I kind of want


It’s a slow, subtle


Caught in the depths

Of my throat

It is loud flirtation

But silent

Secret yearning

To feel his lips beg mine


To feel his God-awful




He hugs me as we joke

[About our “relationship”]

And I wish

Please make it a hold



And it is.

He wants nothing more than


And I?


Kind of



It’s a


Subtle Wanting.

El Cuatro de Abril

So, happy April everyone!  I’m kinda stoked (yes, I just used the word stoked) for this month, since you know, MY BIRTHDAY IS TWO WEEKS AWAY!!!  I promise I won’t go on and on about how excited I am to turn sixteen . . . but I am VERY excited.

In other news, I’ve recently been elected as AV chick for my school’s fencing team so I could get an A in health (pathetic, I know).  My friend is on the team, which is why I do it, so it should be fun.  Basically I film the matches so that the players can review their strategies later.

Grades are coming up, and I’m not exactly worried.  I know I have an A in all of my subjects except for Science, which I should be getting an A in, but nothing is promised.  Speaking of school–they’ve put our course list up online, which I got really excited about.  I’m pretty much 100% sure that I want to take advanced film, even though I’m not doing film this summer.  I’m being pressured into taking AP Spanish (I’ve fulfilled my language requirement for graduation, but heck, APs look really good for college), and am kinda interested in AP Chem instead of taking a science elective.  I’m getting an A- in both classes as it is, so I know that if I went into AP I’d almost certainly get a B, but I still think that the classes would be interesting and exciting, and look really good on my transcript, which is very important.

So enough talk about grades.  I don’t have anything interesting to share at the moment, since I haven’t heard any debatable subjects of conversation recently.  This weekend should be fun, I don’t have that many plans but my cousins are in town and I haven’t seen them in a while so that will be great.  I’m still dragging through Pride and Prejudice, and it’s not that it doesn’t interest me, I really like it, but it’s a difficult read that I don’t often have time for, and I can’t read lots of it at once because it makes my head spin.  My English teacher did lend me this really cool book of stuff called “Flash Fiction” today; really really REALLY short stories.  Under 1,000 words.  Kinda like this:


“Fuck, he’s late. I knew it. Maybe he won’t even show.” Kady had always been the more irrational of the two. From her fears to her goals, nothing ever seemed possible to anyone else but her. She wasn’t ever sure and was rarely ever content, and that state of mind seemed to suit her just fine. Forever in a rush, she never felt the need to please anyone but herself and her oversensitive nerves. Quick to assume, she was hardly ever able to please.

“That’s just his way, he’ll be here.” Logan was the opposite. Although she was younger by a few years, she was more patient and accepting, very chill and rational. This she probably got from years living with her father, who was an altogether crazy man with odd dreams and even odder work hours, but was a man who nonetheless stayed true to his word, eventually. She was very black-or-white, either it is or it isn’t, and once she chose one side over the other, she stuck with it. Some looked at this unfaltering faith as an advantage, while others couldn’t see the benefits.

“He said he’d be here when we got off, and look! It’s ten after and he still hasn’t shown. He’s never coming.” Kady was impatient. It was her first time flying alone, and she was much more nervous than she would ever care to admit. She didn’t know her father well, except that he was an untrustworthy fool, and that her mother hated him. The one thing Kady constantly shared with her sister was that she was constant in her beliefs, and wasn’t quick to lift a grudge or change expectations. It was for her that the phrase, “Don’t judge a book by it’s cover,” had been created.

“He’s five minutes late. He’s always five minutes late. You’ll need to get used to it.” Logan was used to it. She’d spent the first ten years in his care, and at least a third of that had been spent waiting for him to show up. He hadn’t managed to be more than a half hour late, and even that was just once, and had long been forgiven. Living with her mother was something new, and not particularly enjoyed. Though it had already been three years, Logan wasn’t quite used to the routine or getting picked up on time. She wasn’t sure if she liked the timeliness of it all, but she could live with it. It would’ve probably explained why she wasn’t reading her books nearly as fast.

“Well if he’s always going to be five minutes late, then we should’ve told him to be here five minutes early. Then we wouldn’t be waiting here! We haven’t even been able to get our luggage yet.” Kady also hated being under authority she didn’t know, and as they were unaccompanied minors officially, they were under an entire unfamiliar airline of authority. She figured it had been alright at first, but waiting under the keen eye of a frustrated flight attendant had gotten old fast. She should’ve bought a new Su Doku book before getting on the plane—she’d finished the last few advanced puzzles on the plane after watching Shakespeare in Love on the DVD player. Come to think of it, she probably should’ve brought more movies, too. For all they knew, he wouldn’t be showing up for another two hours, and she’d really wanted to see Ferris Buller’s Day Off.

“First off, that never works. I’ve tried. We called, he said he’s on his way. He’s in the car. He’ll be here in five minutes, ten tops. Promise. Would I lie to you?” Logan knew she probably shouldn’t be asking that question. Kady had no reason to trust her, since they’d only been in the same place for three years. Their parent’s long awaited separation and hasty divorce after Logan’s birth had separated them by three thousand long miles.


Except technically that’s not long enough.  The book defines “Flash Fiction” as being anything between 750 and 1000 words, and that’s only about 650 or 675.  And it’s not really done, it’s supposed to be a lot longer, although thinking about it now, it might make more sense as “Sudden Fiction”, which is 1000 to 2000 words.  Before reading any of the stories, I wondered how it was possible to get any message through to a reader in two or three teeny pages.  Then I read some.  I think Flash Fiction is my calling: it’s little drabbles that don’t really have much meaning unless you look into it; they’re a fraction of someone’s life, written out, and you know that there’s something before it and something after it and sometimes you imagine what that might be, and sometimes it’s just not necessary.  My computer is filled with little beginnings of what could be very good Flash/Sudden fiction, at least I think anyway.  I’m completely excited to be reading more of this stuff, it sounds SO interesting.  Anyway, better go.  I’ve got a living room to clean up.


A Story


Hello,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?” She didn’t want to know.

“Same thing as you.” Smart ass. Thief.

“Whatever that is.”

“Oh, you do know, don’t you?”

“Know what?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then why do you ask?”

“Nothing. Everything. Life, death. If you must ask.”

“I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.” Things were getting ugly.

“Oh you must, now, must you.” Why did this have to go on and on? Forever and ever?

She smiled. “What do you really want?”

“Want from what? You? Nothing. The world? Everything I suppose. But, then again, doesn’t everyone?” Finally, a sentence maybe worth listening to. Or not.

“I don’t ask anything of the world. I don’t ask anything from anyone.” Bullshit, she told herself.

“Bullshit.” Now he was telling her too. Wonderful. The maraschino cherry on what had already been quite a shitty day. Now was not the time for people do start calling her bluffs, her sadness under the smiles, under the make up. Now the sleeves were being pulled back, revealing not only the fresh blood, but the scabs that kept being ripped open again, and the scars that would haunt her for years and years to come.

“Why can’t you leave me alone?” Go away. Move away. Travel. Get out of her life for a goddamn twenty seconds, without plopping into her thoughts or plopping right in front of her.

“Why do you want me to?”

“Fuck you.” She tried to glare. She really, honestly, truly did. But, like most other things of recent, she failed.

“Why don’t you stop your bullshit? There you go again.” She wanted to kill him. How dare he? He couldn’t do that. There were rules about these sorts of things. Then again, he’d never had much of a regard for rules. He didn’t even bother to know them, he was a master at breaking them anyway. She wanted to break him. To make him feel guilty. For once. After all of his shit, well she just couldn’t take it. Okay, maybe guilt wouldn’t be realistic, but just to make him feel, anything, to think his own individual thought for once in his insignificant life would be an improvement. She wanted to cry. Why couldn’t she do this? What was wrong with her? She was alone. She reached for her arm.

“Not that shit again. You told me you’d stopped.” He pulled out a cigarette from his back pocket, and a lighter from his jacket.

“You haven’t changed much either.”

“Seasons change. The weather changes. That’s about it.”


“Fuck you too.”


Lemme know what you think.