A Distant Dream
For a long time, there was nothing
On a strange little planet called Earth
After years and years of humans
This planet proved its worth.
The land was split among different groups
The Chinese, the Romans, the Greeks,
Each spoke a different language
Each used their own techniques
Some worshiped, some wrote, some painted
Some invented, some fought, some drew.
New medicine, new things, new ideas
Societies all over grew.
From ancient myths to hieroglyphs
From the Great Wall to the first phone call,
This strange planet so far, far away
Created a world remembered by all...
The alien's eyes flew open
As real as it had seemed,
The one-eyed creature in its wake
Knew it was all a dream.
On a strange little planet called Earth
After years and years of humans
This planet proved its worth.
The land was split among different groups
The Chinese, the Romans, the Greeks,
Each spoke a different language
Each used their own techniques
Some worshiped, some wrote, some painted
Some invented, some fought, some drew.
New medicine, new things, new ideas
Societies all over grew.
From ancient myths to hieroglyphs
From the Great Wall to the first phone call,
This strange planet so far, far away
Created a world remembered by all...
The alien's eyes flew open
As real as it had seemed,
The one-eyed creature in its wake
Knew it was all a dream.
A Fishy Friend (50-Word Mini-Saga)
(June 2013)
Alex sets me on a shelf, after dumping a bag of fluorescent pebbles in my fishbowl.
“You’re my best friend!”
Suddenly, the phone rings. Alex runs to grab it, knocking my bowl over. I choke and sputter, but all he can hear is the sound of his new best friend.
“You’re my best friend!”
Suddenly, the phone rings. Alex runs to grab it, knocking my bowl over. I choke and sputter, but all he can hear is the sound of his new best friend.
Pulitzer Prize
(First Trimester Journalism Portfolio)
Established in 1917 through Joseph Pulitzer's will, the Pulitzer Prize is a national award given to journalists who have made an achievement in literature and journalism. The Pulitzer Prize board, whose members give the award, consists of the dean of Columbia University and several academics, publishers, columnists, and other literary careers.
Joseph Pulitzer was a Hungarian-American publisher who introduced new techniques for journalism and later established the Pulitzer Prize by giving money to Columbia University through his will.
The award is given to journalists and other types of artists who have made achievements in several different categories. This award is a very prestigious medal and given by the Pulitzer Prize board.
Like most, this award is an honor to receive and has been given to many famous people in literary careers, including Carl Sandburg and Robert Frost.
Journalists who strive to achieve great things in their writing can certainly be eligible to win this award.
Joseph Pulitzer was a Hungarian-American publisher who introduced new techniques for journalism and later established the Pulitzer Prize by giving money to Columbia University through his will.
The award is given to journalists and other types of artists who have made achievements in several different categories. This award is a very prestigious medal and given by the Pulitzer Prize board.
Like most, this award is an honor to receive and has been given to many famous people in literary careers, including Carl Sandburg and Robert Frost.
Journalists who strive to achieve great things in their writing can certainly be eligible to win this award.
The Man Who Killed Wheatsville
(Summer 2012)
In the small, luscious valley of Wheatsville, everything was perfect. Their economy was skyrocketing because of their nearly endless supply of wheat. They produced bread, cereal, crackers, chips, and virtually everything involving wheat. Their population was comprised of the farmers, the bakers, the inventors, the children, and the Lone Man. Everyone got along in their friendly society, except (of course) the Lone Man. Wheatsville was flawless, except for (of course) the Lone Man.
The townsfolk referenced him as the “Lone Man,” but frankly, they preferred not to talk about him at all. His real name, however, was Frank R. Jones. He always sat in the empty, white room in the second story of his huge house, staring out at the children happily playing ball, the happy couples showing off their new babies, and grandparents taking their grandchildren to the park. Wheatsville was full of youth.
However, Frank preferred to sit with a glazed expression, staring into the street, unmoving. No one ever saw him move. They weren’t sure if he even could move anymore.
Years ago, Frank was happily married with a kind, beautiful wife whom he loved dearly. Her name was Isabella. She was, like Frank, once an inventor. Together, they had put together a blueprint for their Time Bus. Unfortunately, it had never been developed because of Isabella’s tragic death. Ever since, Frank had been the Lone Man.
Today had been a peculiar day in Wheatsville history. It had started as a regular day for most people. That is, until the Lone Man saw something. Something he would not forget.
The sun cast its gaze upon the bright city of Wheatsville. The Lone Man stared lifelessly out the dusty window. Suddenly, something caught his eye. It was bright orange and yellow with wood paneling. And it was the size of a bus.
A Time Bus.
Frank leaped from his chair like a frog in his dirty tanktop and boxers that hadn’t been washed for over two years. He ran downstairs as quickly as he could and whipped open the door. The bus was heading up the hill, so Frank moved at super speed after it.
Shocked townspeople stared and gaped at the old man. Frank had pushed people out of the way to get to the bus. Scared children hugged their parents. Frank had finally caught up to the bus.
“Stop! Stop!” he yelled. The bus gradually slowed to a stop and Frank approached the driver.
“Would you mind telling me exactly how this was created?” Frank gasped.
“Sure!” the jolly driver shouted. “Well, we fastened the wood panels by—”
“No, no!” Frank interrupted. “I mean before that. You know, blueprints and such.”
“Oh! Well, you know, that’s a funny story. Down at the lab, we uncovered some old blueprints while cleaning the other day for this crazy Time Bus idea. We worked overtime so much to finish this! We were so excited. Gosh, can I tell you.”
He stared off into space for a while, until Frank interrupted his thoughts.
“Er, do you happen to know who drew these blueprints?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Some Frank Jones, Isabella Jones folks. Why, you know them?”
Frank was speechless. “I-I, I am them! I mean, I’m Frank Jones! I created this bus!”
“Gee, I didn’t see that coming! Who would think some crazy old man in his underpants would have invented the greatest breakthrough in the 23rd century?”
Frank looked down quickly, then back at the driver, embarrassed. “Wait here,” he said. He ran down the hill, swung open the door, and flew up the stairs to change. He put on his best Sunday suit and ran back to the bus, pulling his pants on as he ran.
The bus driver looked curiously down at him. Breathless, Frank asked, “Can I be the first one to, to try it out? It was my idea, you know.”
“Well, gosh, I was just taking it out for a spin! But I suppose so, sure, let’s try it out!”
Frank climbed aboard and said authoritatively, “December 21st, 2078 please. That was the day my wife, Isabella, passed away. I’d like to see her again please.”
The driver said, “Sure! Off we go!” He punched in a series of digits on the dashboard and pulled the gearstick.
Lights of all colors flashed around them. They were moving at supersonic speed now. There was no turning back.
Suddenly they halted to a stop. A squeaking brake let out an ear-piercing screech. The fog around them lifted and their location was revealed.
Here it is, Frank thought. Here’s where Izzy’s life ended. And mine.
“You only have fifteen minutes. Don’t change anything. Be careful what you do, and remember, you can’t be seen right now. You’re only a presence. You need to meet up with your old self and take its body over. Hurry back. I’ll be waiting here,” the bus driver whispered.
“Okay.” Frank cautiously left the bus and crossed the street to the restaurant where Isabella had choked to death while he was in the bathroom. He couldn’t change the future now, meaning he couldn’t save her. He entered. Looking around the room, he saw himself, of course a much younger form. He went over to himself and took a deep breath. Then he went in.
The beautiful Isabella sat opposite him. She smiled casually. They had already gotten their food. Isabella chewed her beef and vegetables, obliviously, unknowingly.
“Delicious,” she said. Her voice was like an angel’s.
He stared down at his plate. He remembered eating very, very small bites of it, for it was too salty. Maybe he would like it better now. He cautiously took a bite of his salmon, which was almost saltier than he remembered. He quickly downed his glass of water and then ordered another, drinking it faster than the first.
“Delicious,” he said. His voice came out scratchy, like the old Frank. He nervously checked his watch. Fourteen minutes had passed. He knew the next deadly bite was to come soon. He hastily excused himself to go to the restroom.
“I’m sorry, Isabella. I’m sorry it had to end this way. Goodbye,” he whispered to himself, pushing his chair in. He entered the restroom and then left the young Frank’s body. He slipped out of the restroom door and then passed Isabella as she began to choke and cough, and choke and cough. A tear welled in his eye. All around, people were chatting, enjoying their food, as the love of his life was hacking to death. Why? he wondered. Why?! Nobody even looked up. Why?!
He wanted to help her, but he knew he couldn't. The bus driver's words echoed in his head: Don't change anything.
Devastated, he left the restaurant. He returned to the Time Bus, where Leonard (the bus driver) had waited as promised.
“How’d everything go?” he asked.
“Fine," he spat. "Just fine. My wife was dying and no one even cared!” Frank began screaming. “No one! No one even looked up from their stupid dinner to care! And now look where she is!” He gazed angrily up at the sky.
“I'm sorry.” Leonard paused for a little to give Frank sympathy. “Well, we have to be leaving soon. Our deadline is up.” He pulled the gearstick and they took off at sonic speed. Lights flashed and they were home. Only, it wasn’t home.
The usually bright, lively town was now barren and dry, with a deep grey-purple sky. The fields of wheat were nearly empty with the last standing stalks dead as night. Frank glanced around nervously. “Wh-wh, what happened h-here?”
The driver's expression was no longer smiling. His hands were trembling—trembling with rage. “Y-y-you! You monster! You caused this! What have you done?!”
“Nothing, I swear! The only thing I touched there was my water!” He slowed. “My w-water. My water!” He looked at Leonard. “Are you trying to tell me,” he gulped, “that one lousy cup of water caused this?! This is an outrage!”
The driver’s eyes flashed angrily. “Funny what the future can do, huh?” And then he was gone.
Frank fell on his knees, his hands quivering with emotion. "WHY?!" His voice echoed all across the valley.
He fell into the dead grass that lay beneath him, and he began to cry. I'm a murderer, he thought. I should have helped Isabella. Anything would have been better than this.
Frank walked silently back to his house, his mind racing. Why? WHY? He didn’t understand. He walked solemnly up the stairs, tears welling in his eyes, and he got a key from a closet. He took the key and opened a box. And in that box was a handgun. He pulled it to his chin and fingered the trigger.
Its voice echoed all across the valley.
The townsfolk referenced him as the “Lone Man,” but frankly, they preferred not to talk about him at all. His real name, however, was Frank R. Jones. He always sat in the empty, white room in the second story of his huge house, staring out at the children happily playing ball, the happy couples showing off their new babies, and grandparents taking their grandchildren to the park. Wheatsville was full of youth.
However, Frank preferred to sit with a glazed expression, staring into the street, unmoving. No one ever saw him move. They weren’t sure if he even could move anymore.
Years ago, Frank was happily married with a kind, beautiful wife whom he loved dearly. Her name was Isabella. She was, like Frank, once an inventor. Together, they had put together a blueprint for their Time Bus. Unfortunately, it had never been developed because of Isabella’s tragic death. Ever since, Frank had been the Lone Man.
Today had been a peculiar day in Wheatsville history. It had started as a regular day for most people. That is, until the Lone Man saw something. Something he would not forget.
The sun cast its gaze upon the bright city of Wheatsville. The Lone Man stared lifelessly out the dusty window. Suddenly, something caught his eye. It was bright orange and yellow with wood paneling. And it was the size of a bus.
A Time Bus.
Frank leaped from his chair like a frog in his dirty tanktop and boxers that hadn’t been washed for over two years. He ran downstairs as quickly as he could and whipped open the door. The bus was heading up the hill, so Frank moved at super speed after it.
Shocked townspeople stared and gaped at the old man. Frank had pushed people out of the way to get to the bus. Scared children hugged their parents. Frank had finally caught up to the bus.
“Stop! Stop!” he yelled. The bus gradually slowed to a stop and Frank approached the driver.
“Would you mind telling me exactly how this was created?” Frank gasped.
“Sure!” the jolly driver shouted. “Well, we fastened the wood panels by—”
“No, no!” Frank interrupted. “I mean before that. You know, blueprints and such.”
“Oh! Well, you know, that’s a funny story. Down at the lab, we uncovered some old blueprints while cleaning the other day for this crazy Time Bus idea. We worked overtime so much to finish this! We were so excited. Gosh, can I tell you.”
He stared off into space for a while, until Frank interrupted his thoughts.
“Er, do you happen to know who drew these blueprints?”
“Oh, yeah, sure. Some Frank Jones, Isabella Jones folks. Why, you know them?”
Frank was speechless. “I-I, I am them! I mean, I’m Frank Jones! I created this bus!”
“Gee, I didn’t see that coming! Who would think some crazy old man in his underpants would have invented the greatest breakthrough in the 23rd century?”
Frank looked down quickly, then back at the driver, embarrassed. “Wait here,” he said. He ran down the hill, swung open the door, and flew up the stairs to change. He put on his best Sunday suit and ran back to the bus, pulling his pants on as he ran.
The bus driver looked curiously down at him. Breathless, Frank asked, “Can I be the first one to, to try it out? It was my idea, you know.”
“Well, gosh, I was just taking it out for a spin! But I suppose so, sure, let’s try it out!”
Frank climbed aboard and said authoritatively, “December 21st, 2078 please. That was the day my wife, Isabella, passed away. I’d like to see her again please.”
The driver said, “Sure! Off we go!” He punched in a series of digits on the dashboard and pulled the gearstick.
Lights of all colors flashed around them. They were moving at supersonic speed now. There was no turning back.
Suddenly they halted to a stop. A squeaking brake let out an ear-piercing screech. The fog around them lifted and their location was revealed.
Here it is, Frank thought. Here’s where Izzy’s life ended. And mine.
“You only have fifteen minutes. Don’t change anything. Be careful what you do, and remember, you can’t be seen right now. You’re only a presence. You need to meet up with your old self and take its body over. Hurry back. I’ll be waiting here,” the bus driver whispered.
“Okay.” Frank cautiously left the bus and crossed the street to the restaurant where Isabella had choked to death while he was in the bathroom. He couldn’t change the future now, meaning he couldn’t save her. He entered. Looking around the room, he saw himself, of course a much younger form. He went over to himself and took a deep breath. Then he went in.
The beautiful Isabella sat opposite him. She smiled casually. They had already gotten their food. Isabella chewed her beef and vegetables, obliviously, unknowingly.
“Delicious,” she said. Her voice was like an angel’s.
He stared down at his plate. He remembered eating very, very small bites of it, for it was too salty. Maybe he would like it better now. He cautiously took a bite of his salmon, which was almost saltier than he remembered. He quickly downed his glass of water and then ordered another, drinking it faster than the first.
“Delicious,” he said. His voice came out scratchy, like the old Frank. He nervously checked his watch. Fourteen minutes had passed. He knew the next deadly bite was to come soon. He hastily excused himself to go to the restroom.
“I’m sorry, Isabella. I’m sorry it had to end this way. Goodbye,” he whispered to himself, pushing his chair in. He entered the restroom and then left the young Frank’s body. He slipped out of the restroom door and then passed Isabella as she began to choke and cough, and choke and cough. A tear welled in his eye. All around, people were chatting, enjoying their food, as the love of his life was hacking to death. Why? he wondered. Why?! Nobody even looked up. Why?!
He wanted to help her, but he knew he couldn't. The bus driver's words echoed in his head: Don't change anything.
Devastated, he left the restaurant. He returned to the Time Bus, where Leonard (the bus driver) had waited as promised.
“How’d everything go?” he asked.
“Fine," he spat. "Just fine. My wife was dying and no one even cared!” Frank began screaming. “No one! No one even looked up from their stupid dinner to care! And now look where she is!” He gazed angrily up at the sky.
“I'm sorry.” Leonard paused for a little to give Frank sympathy. “Well, we have to be leaving soon. Our deadline is up.” He pulled the gearstick and they took off at sonic speed. Lights flashed and they were home. Only, it wasn’t home.
The usually bright, lively town was now barren and dry, with a deep grey-purple sky. The fields of wheat were nearly empty with the last standing stalks dead as night. Frank glanced around nervously. “Wh-wh, what happened h-here?”
The driver's expression was no longer smiling. His hands were trembling—trembling with rage. “Y-y-you! You monster! You caused this! What have you done?!”
“Nothing, I swear! The only thing I touched there was my water!” He slowed. “My w-water. My water!” He looked at Leonard. “Are you trying to tell me,” he gulped, “that one lousy cup of water caused this?! This is an outrage!”
The driver’s eyes flashed angrily. “Funny what the future can do, huh?” And then he was gone.
Frank fell on his knees, his hands quivering with emotion. "WHY?!" His voice echoed all across the valley.
He fell into the dead grass that lay beneath him, and he began to cry. I'm a murderer, he thought. I should have helped Isabella. Anything would have been better than this.
Frank walked silently back to his house, his mind racing. Why? WHY? He didn’t understand. He walked solemnly up the stairs, tears welling in his eyes, and he got a key from a closet. He took the key and opened a box. And in that box was a handgun. He pulled it to his chin and fingered the trigger.
Its voice echoed all across the valley.